Cenotaph
by Soulhearts
Summary: He yelled at Steve. And now Steve's abandoned him. Steve's never coming back and it's all his fault. A man once said to him that he deserved to be locked away forever, until maggots crawled out of his hollow bones. He believes that man. That man was right. He deserves much worse than that.
1. I This, the ecstasy of delusion?

Warnings/Possible Triggers: _Psychological trauma, drugs, needles, emotional/psychological abuse, psychotropic drugs, mentions of war, mentions of torture, flashbacks._

* * *

Cenotaph

 _The shrill demented choirs of wailing shells;_

 _And bugles calling for them from sad shires._

 _What candles may be held to speed them all?_

 _Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes_

 _Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes._

 _\- Wilfred Owen_

 **I.** **This, the ecstasy of delusion?**

The walls in his cell are too close for comfort. They always have been. The white padding inside only ever bounces back when he punches it. Most days the orange jumpsuit hurts his eyes and makes his brain scream. His brain fucking screams.

He doesn't sleep, he passes out from exhaustion. The thing about sleep is that it is a choice, and he never has that choice. The mission never had that choice. There was no sleeping on missions, so there is no sleeping now. There has always been exhaustion though, and that is when he passes out; usually after three or four days of his brain satanically screaming at him like there are literal demons crawling out of hell and shrieking into his ears.

He's asked them to put him back on ice many times, but they always refuse. It would be preferable to be unconscious, but he hardly ever is. They won't let him. This is their punishment. Their punishment for him. After all the bad stuff he's done, after everything. He spent years avoiding the ice, but now he just knows it as relief.

Memories accumulate over time. The longer he is awake, the more memories flood into his screaming brain and sometimes, the overwhelming amount makes the scream in his brain come out of his mouth. He tries to stay silent, because he remembers being punished for screaming, but it's hard most days because he knows that if he screams too much, they'll come and put him under. They inject something into him and he is allowed the relief of unconsciousness. It is a god damn blessing.

The screaming isn't as loud when he talks to people, though there are only three people he is allowed to talk to and only one of them visits regularly; Steve Rogers, the man on the bridge, alias: Captain America, member of the Howling Commandos, James Buchanan Barnes' best friend.

'Bucky' is what Steve calls him. Steve is lucky he responds because he doesn't remember that name, or he didn't until Steve told him that the name belonged to him. His name was Soldat, or Asset.

For Steve, Bucky Barnes is living a lie. Steve asks him the same question: "How're you doing today, Buck?" And he answers: "I'm good, Steve."

But of course, the screaming never truly stops and the white noise only ever gets louder once Steve has left.

Some days, Steve smiles, but some days he frowns and cries and fiddles with his wrist watch like he wants to leave and never come back. Bucky can hardly blame him. But he thinks it would be lonely without Steve's visits.

"Are you leaving, Steve?" He asks on one such day.

Steve's been thumbing the face of his watch for the past twenty minutes. Bucky knows he doesn't want to be here anymore. Steve hates it here with him.

He jerks, dropping his hands as his eyebrows jump.

"N-no, Buck, no. I'm not leaving." He avers earnestly, his expression falling to one of guilt.

"You should go." He nods. "You should leave."

"No, I'm not going." He hears stubbornly from the other side of the unbreakable glass.

"You don't want to be here." He says turning away.

There's an empty space. And Bucky loses it.

"YOU DON'T WANT TO BE HERE!" He screams, charging up to the glass, slamming his fists down until he can feel the whirring of metal and the crunch of his own bone. It doesn't deter him though, the breaking of his knuckles. His eyes are glued to Steve and his expression of horror as he reaches for the red help button under the desk. Bucky isn't supposed to know it's there but he does.

Eight burly men in reinforced suits enter his room and grab him. He tries fighting back, but it's doing him no good. He feels it when the needle is jammed into the back of his neck. Fuck. He doesn't want to go out this time. He doesn't want the screaming to end. He just wants to scream at Steve. Scream and scream and scream until he can't scream or even speak anymore.

But he goes out.

And when he wakes, he's on the bed. He sits. Levering himself into an upright position. There's nothing holding him down but his body feels like a lead weight.

Steve is gone. There's no one on the other side of the glass, and he can not help the sigh that escapes his mouth.

"Figures," he spits, lowering his head back down onto the pillow and swinging his feet up again. "Just figures."

There's an unusual quiet in his mind that fascinates him. A quiet he's not known in a long time.

It's nice. Peaceful.

He's unsure how long it lasts, but he doesn't move until the dinner tray slides through the hatch in the door.

He blinks at it a few times before finally deciding he is hungry enough to eat the mashed pumpkin and cabbage they've served. If he doesn't eat it, he thinks they might knock him out again and feed him through a tube like they did that one other time. Like H.Y.D.R.A. did. Unpleasant experience. This is S.H.I.E.L.D., they're like H.Y.D.R.A. but they're not. He's not sure really, it confuses him. They don't wipe him here. But somehow, this still feels like some form of torture.

He sits on the floor and eats his meal before hitting the small blue button and sending his empty tray back through. Out the corner of his eye he notices an object which has fallen from its place.

He picks up the photo that has fallen onto the floor from his shelf and returns it. His room is mostly barren but they let him keep a few things, books, a card game, some photos that Steve has gifted to him…

Will Steve come back? He wonders. He wants Steve to come back. Who will talk to him if Steve doesn't? No one. No one will talk to him. He is bad. He is a bad person and he killed a lot of good people. He's so bad. Steve doesn't want to talk to him. Steve never wanted to, he just visited because he was too nice, but now Bucky's given him a reason not to come back and that makes his chest hurt. He can never be Steve's Bucky and he may have inadvertently proved that to Steve. Steve only came out of some lingering sense of duty to his old friend, James Buchanan Barnes, but that man is gone and Bucky can never be that man. He thinks perhaps Steve knows this.

The lights go out unexpectedly. That means it is sleeping time. But he never sleeps.

He crawls into his bed and waits for the man to check he is in his bed. Bucky is not allowed to be out of bed once lights are out, but he cannot sleep so he just lies there and thinks about things. Steve, mostly, as Steve is the most exciting thing that ever happens to him in this place. He expects they will leave him here until he dies. He will wither away because that is what he deserves. A man once said to him that he deserved to be locked away forever, until maggots crawled out of his hollow bones. He believes that man. That man was right. He deserves much worse than that.

He remembers the sensation of electricity wiping his brain and the feeling of water being poured over his face until he could no longer breathe. It felt like drowning, but he never died. They just did it over and over and over again, until he could not judge how much time had passed or how long he'd been awake for. That is what he deserves.

He used to get whipped, he remembers that. He was whipped a lot, but the wounds healed in two or so days. Sometimes he wonders if it ever happened, because there are no wounds on his back, so how can he prove it was real? But he remembers the pain. He trusts the pain. Pain is the only thing he is sure about. If he knows only two things it's that a man can be killed with a bullet to his head, and pain can make him forget his own name.

He thinks about the electricity and the chair until his hands shake. He folds them under his arm pits and tries to stop them from trembling. He is unsuccessful and he pushes himself into a sitting position with his back against the wall.

There is quiet all around him, but his head is screaming again. Why must it scream again.

In the morning, the lights come up and they make him squint. He has not slept a wink, but it is what he expected. Sleep is for those who have choices, not him.

The breakfast tray comes in fifteen minutes later and he eats the toast and sends it back.

Two hours later, the redhead comes to see him. She stands behind the glass and eyes him with her piercing stare.

"I heard you yelled at Steve." She says, sitting down on the chair, crossing her legs.

He grimaces.

"Yes." He admits. He'd rather not talk about it, but he's not in charge. He's never in charge. He is Soldat. He follows orders, he doesn't give them.

"Why?" She asks.

He shrugs.

"Don't know." He replies.

She raises one impertinent eyebrow before she stands and makes her way for the door.

"You've been authorised a psychiatrist. He'll be coming to see you." She says on her way out.

He never gets to ask her if Steve is coming back.

The psychiatrist is an old man with white hair and a balding crown. His voice is needling and he makes the white noise louder inside Bucky's brain. It hurts to think when this man is around and he paces constantly, anxiety crawling it's way up his spine.

The psychiatrist doesn't like him either. He prescribes Bucky some pills, that is basically all he does. He says he'll be back but Bucky would rather this be the last he sees of this whiny-voiced man.

They put the pills on Bucky's tray and he takes them with his dinner.

He immediately regrets it.

They make him feel sick. Nauseous. He's pretty sure they notice. He knows there are people watching him. There are always people watching him, it is a familiar feeling.

He curls up on his bed and clutches his stomach. The walls around him change shape and colour, his whole room twists into something he can no longer recognise, he sees things he doesn't want to hear. He hears gunfire, the sound of shelling in the distance… He can feel the mud on his feet, the frost bite on his hands. The screaming that had once been only in his head now comes out of the mouths of the dying men all around him. He rushes to their sides, but each time, they die of their injuries before he can do anything of any real value. He clasps their hands tightly, promises them he'll tell their mothers, sisters, girlfriends, that he died honourably, died a hero. He promises them that God is waiting for them, that where they're going, they won't feel any pain. Some of them smile at him with real, genuine hope and it makes him feel like a pathetic liar. He doesn't know if there's a god up there or not, and if there is, why won't he save them from this hell?

"Sargent," coughs one, blood splattering out of his mouth and all over the front of Bucky's uniform. This kid is no older than eighteen. "Sargent, please, I… I can't feel my legs."

Bucky doesn't look down. He knows this kid doesn't have those limbs anymore. If he looks down, he knows he'll be sick, he knows what he'll find.

"You're okay, you're okay Billy," he grasps the hand in his tighter. "We're gonna get you fixed up real good, I promise. You're gonna be right as rain, I promise."

"My Ma," says the kid. "Tell her…"

The blood comes up again and dribbles down the side of his mouth, it falls into the mud and makes a pool.

"What, Billy?" He asks, tears pricking in his eyes.

Billy doesn't say anything. Bucky just feels the hand in his lose all life.

"Billy?" He pulls back. He knows what he's gonna find and he's already sobbing. "B-Billy?"

Billy's blue eyes are wide open, but they don't hold any life any more. There's nothing left of the eighteen year old, the kid with his whole life ahead of him. He's a half blown apart corpse now, his guts splayed all through the mud where the shell went off.

Bucky sits up in his bed screaming.

It's the middle of the night, but fucking hell he can't! He can't be quiet! There are people dying there are people dying there are people dying and he can't stop it!

The lights come on in his room and eight men come in.

The screams just get louder.

They grab him, the needle is procured.

No, no more drugs! No more pills! He doesn't want this! He doesn't want this! HE DOESN'T WANT THIS!

He knocks the needle out of the man's hand. He writhes and he screams.

"STEVE! STEVE HELP ME PLEASE!" He's screaming and crying and trying to fight his way out. If these men were unequipped from these metal suits, he'd be able to take them easily. But that's not in his luck. "STEVE!" He continues to shout, lashing out with his foot and striking one of the men in his faceplate. "HELP ME PLEASE, STEVE!" He's wailing and his broken vocal chords hurt and he's coughing and screaming and sobbing and shrieking and bawling.

He feels it the second the needle goes in. He collapses moments later.

The room fades into nothing…

He wakes in the early hours of the morning. The lights aren't up yet. There's quiet.

His brain hurts, but the screaming is a quiet yell for now.

He's on the bed again. They always leave him on the bed, never on the floor.

He curls into himself and sobs.

Steve didn't come. Steve isn't here. Why did he think he could trust Steve? He can't trust anyone; he can't trust, he dangerous. They don't come for him. No one comes for him.

"I'm scared…" he says to the darkness. The darkness doesn't reply. It is as quiet as it always has been. "Steve…" he cries.

He knows he is more Bucky than Soldat these days, but he wishes he could've simply stayed as the Soldier. He wouldn't have to think or feel or remember. He could just do. That was his purpose.

When the lights come up and breakfast comes through, he knows some thing's up.

There's porridge on his tray, but they serve porridge on Thursdays and it is only Wednesday.

He gives it a whiff and dips a finger in experimentally. He licks his forefinger and immediately realises they've laced his food with the psychiatric drugs his doc prescribed. He pushes the tray away, sending it back through the hole in the wall.

It comes back, two seconds later.

He sends it through.

It comes back.

He leaves it.

Breakfast is still there when lunch comes through. They've laced the pumpkin soup too. These people realise he can go without food for weeks, right?

Steve doesn't visit him that day. Bucky withers a little inside, guilt resurfacing.

Dinner appears, pushing lunch out the way. He tests it out. It tastes drug free.

He sends lunch and breakfast back through and neither of them return.

He eats dinner. Pasta with pesto. It's yummy. Once consumed, it too goes back through the hole in the wall.

Lights go out.

Silence fills the space, but the screaming inside his brain only feels louder when there is quiet all around him.

The next day, both Redhead and Dr. Whiny-Voice-Ugly-Face visit him.

"You're not eating, I hear." Says the psychiatrist.

He shrugs.

"Not hungry." He says.

They both know what's going on here. But neither directly mentions it. The façade stays in place another day.

"When can I see Steve?" He asks.

"When you eat your meals and take your meds," says the doc. "Then perhaps your friend will visit you."

He doesn't have much more luck with the redhead.

"Steve?" She says after he's prompted the question. "You yelled at him."

Yes, he knows. Is he not allowed to apologise in person?

"I don't know when he plans to visit you next."

Bucky doesn't answer any of her other questions regarding HYDRA activities. He doesn't remember all that much anyway. He's told her everything he knows. They just think he must know more. They always think he knows more. They're wrong. He just wants to see Steve.

The week ends and Steve doesn't appear.

A feeling, or perhaps better described, a non-feeling appears in his chest. It spreads like a cancer until all his limbs feel heavy. He hasn't slept in seventy hours. He collapses on his bed.

He feels fortunate that he doesn't dream. He'd rather never dream, not if dreams are like taking meds. It scares him. They don't know how much it scares him. They've injected him with meds twice now. Both times he felt unable to control the situation around him. He felt like he was relieving the worst parts of his life.

He buries his face in the pillow. He's so scared. They'll come back, he knows they will. They'll drug him again and he doesn't want that. The drugs bring back memories he'd rather not have.

All is quiet until morning.

He eats the food. Toast. But the morning goes from quiet to hellish in less than half an hour.

They hold him against the wall and he can feel the injection go straight into the nape of his neck. He yells. The needle they use is fucking huge. It hurts. There's more than just the drugs his doctor prescribed in that thing, there's a sedative too. He's sure of it, because the injection makes him lose all control of his muscles. It's not powerful enough to knock him unconscious, but it is strong enough that he cannot fight them. It's a curse, really. Because he still lives through the agony of the resurfacing of his memories.

He's falling this time. He falls straight into a chair. Where the hell is this?

There's something in his mouth, he wants to spit it out but he doesn't. He thinks there's a reason not to. His hands are bound by metal cuffs on the chair. Something closes around his head. He remembers this.

Pure panic and terror overwhelms him. His brain is screaming at him, it's telling him to fight back. He struggles in the chair. He twists and writhes desperately. The fire is scorching behind his eyeballs, killing every cell in his brain. He's screaming. He can't help but scream. It hurts so much.

He remembers why they fed him through a tube— the contents of his stomach rise and he chokes on the vomit that comes out. He coughs it up, but his breakfast spews over the side of the chair.

He can feel cold hands on him, medical hands. He starts to shiver all over, like someone left him in minus twenty degrees celsius weather without clothes. He knows, with weirdly distant knowledge, that he's having a seizure. The way his body is spasming.

But the chair does that. It melts his brain until it short circuits and resets. He remembers. Of course he remembers _now_ , when he's about to _lose_ his memory. Figures.

The medication wears off eventually. He is surprised to find himself, not in his room, but in the medical bay.

He's strapped to the table.

His heart flies into his throat. He screams. He's halfway to having a panic attack when someone knocks him out with a very powerful aesthetic.

He wakes up in his room this time. Redhead is there with him, watching him through the glass. She watches with a certain detachment, like she can't get emotionally close to him or something bad will happen.

He swings his feet off the bed and sits up, approaching the glass with more hesitance than usual.

"How are you doing?" She asks. He detects a hint of sympathy in her tone.

He rubs the nape of his neck and shakes his shaggy mane of hair.

"Feel like I got hit by a bus," he admits. "And by a train, at the same time."

"I'm sorry." She apologises.

He gives her an incredulous stare.

"Why?" He asks.

She looks away with guilt, her bob of flame hair shielding her eyes.

"It pains me to admit this to you but, it was our fault you had a seizure. I'm sorry."

A bitter laugh escapes him. This time, she's the one giving an incredulous stare. Honestly, he hadn't realised that had happened. He thought it was the meds.

"Your apology is accepted." He says simply. He's had a lot worse done to him, but he knows she knows this.

She gives himself stiff, jerky nod and hesitates just long enough in her departure for him to say,

"When is Steve coming back?"

She doesn't answer him for a moment and his stomach sinks into his gut.

"I don't know." She replies quietly. Then, she's gone, out the door.

The following week passes quietly. They don't make him take any drugs and they don't burst into his room once. Peace settles in, though the white noise remains a constant haze and it gets heavy sometimes. He eats, reads, passes out at least twice. Overall, it's a nice week, with the exception of the notable absence of a certain Steve Rogers.

However, he knows the good times are over when his psychiatrist shows up the following Monday.

He doesn't say a word. Doesn't reply to any question he is asked, he simply sits and watches the man, plotting one-hundred-and-one-ways to kill him with just the objects in his room.

When he leaves, Bucky is, for lack of a better word, overjoyed. But he knows what's coming. He wants out and fuck them all, he's getting out.

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	2. II Maybe the meds haven't worn off yet

Cenotaph

"O plunge your hands in water,

Plunge them in up to the wrist;

Stare, stare in the basin,

And wonder what you've missed."

— W. H. Auden

 **I** **I. Maybe the meds haven't worn off yet.**

There is loud gunfire behind him.  
It rings in his ears.  
Sirens wail red.  
His arm clicks and whirs wildly.

The whole situation feels eerily familiar, he can hear the ghosts of his past catching up with him. They shriek and cackle,

…Maybe the meds haven't completely worn off yet.

S.H.I.E.L.D. should have learned from H.Y.D.R.A.; if The Soldier is to be detained, one needs to do it with complete conviction.

Blood pounds in his ears and rushes past the back of his eyes. He can hear screaming, but it might only be in the back of his brain.

He grasps the stairwell railing and hoists himself up another flight of stairs. His hand slips an inch. Fuck. He's losing focus. Should've slept first. It's been sixty-two hours since he last remembers waking. He's been doped up on meds twice since then and those little fucking pills mess with his brain.

But when would he have had another chance? Another time may never have occurred. The timing was exceptional, he'd had to go whilst he could. He had to get out. He has to find Steve.

His vision is blurred. He can hardly see past the dizzy fatigue that makes it seem like he's always falling to his left.

A well-aimed bullet whizzes past his ear and he jerks forward, his bare foot stumbling over a step before regaining traction, finding a firm hold.

God, that was too close. He needs to get a grip. He's weak.

Planning the escape route was always Steve's job. He was the tactical genius defender, not Bucky. Bucky was the weapon they pointed and said, "Shoot. Don't miss." He just obeyed. Why can't he do that now, he wonders. Why does he feel this overwhelming panic and fear of going back to that cell? This wrenching feeling, clawing its way up his stomach.

The thought of Steve nearly pulls him up short until he hears a bullet hit the upper railing where his hand had just been. It rebounds with a sonorous clang that echoes the whole way down the fire escape. He spent seventy years as the right hand of evil, listening to every order, obeying, never missing a target. People supposedly fear him, but he wonders if they know the opposite is true too.

Once, as a kid, he remembers finding a snake during the summer, curled up in a humid alleyway. The sun had basked the pavement during the middle of the day, but in late afternoon, shade was provided by the sides of the Brooklyn apartments.

"Mom," he'd said, tugging on her skirt, her arms laden with groceries from the general store. "Look!" He'd pointed at the snake and then ducked behind her skirt.

"Oh James," she'd said. "It's more afraid of you than you are of it."

Two days later he'd found the corpse of the snake lying in the street. Old man MacIntyre had chopped it in half with his wood axe. It's guts spilled into the street and he'd had too look away. The smell was really overwhelming during the sizzling day, the wind had forsaken them them too so there was no breeze to blow away the scent of rotting flesh.

Right now he feels like the snake.

Though it's depressingly morbid how familiar and comfortable he's become with the scent of death

He swallows hard. His feet move without him asking them to. The bullet is followed by an arrow, but he is gone when the arrow hits the place where his neck would have been. For half a second he wonders who the fuck is firing arrows—(a bit archaic? Give him a SIG-Sauer P226R over a pointy ended projectile any day)—but then he remembers that it doesn't matter. They're trying to neutralise him and he can't go back to that cell.

He doesn't fail to notice the electric current on the end of the arrow. Those aren't ordinary arrows. Oh fuck. How much current is running through that thing? Shit, there's gotta be a lot if they plan to bring him down, they know he won't go down without a fight. They plan to knock him out. Maybe not kill him, but he knows it will really fucking hurt if arrow-shooter manages land a hit.

He really doesn't want to get hit by those things.

Four more flights of stairs. Then there's a door.

The alarm siren wails louder when he pushes it open, alerting everyone to his location, and he hears more SWAT personnel down the corridor to the right.

He charges straight. Passes three laboratories, all three containing scientists huddling within fearfully. They've bolted the doors and then barricaded them with whatever they can find, but he's not interested in hurting them or getting into their labs. He just wants to find a fucking way out! He's not like he used to be. He's not the fearless soldier or the brain-washed assassin anymore. Yes, he has those abilities somewhere in his fucked up, Swiss-cheese brain, but right now he feels more like that twenty-six year old, wearing nothing more than a tin hat and some flimsy army uniform. Drafted in a war he didn't want to fight. The guy they placed a gun in the hands of, even though he'd never shot anything in his life, and said, "kill as many of those damn bastards as you can". Now he might be desensitised to death.

He sprints down the corridor only to find another fire escape. He pushes on the door to find more stairs, which he bounds up four at a time.

And he finally finds an exit.

He hammers hard on the door, but it doesn't budge. Stupid lockdown. He hits the thing with his left arm and the whole middle section of the door shatters. He's through, but the action sends a painful shockwave up his arm and into his spine. He doesn't have time to care about this shit right now, but the pain makes blacks spots in his vision and he has to rest a minute. Better not pass out before making it to freedom. He's nearly made it out to the helicopter pad. He's about to make a break for it—

"Fuck!" He screams, right knee hitting the ground, a bullet catching him in the calf.

He hisses through his teeth, horrible, desperate breaths.

The yelling voices from below are getting louder. He can distinguish distinct tenors and vocal vibrations now. He thinks he can hear the redhead yelling at someone to fire but not lethally injure.

Yeah, he figures she knows Steve will bust a nut if he finds out he is dead.

He needs Steve. He needs Steve because he is the only one whom Bucky can believe, the only one he's even remotely started to trust. He wants to be able to trust. He doesn't want to be scared anymore! Steve doesn't need him. Heck, Steve probably doesn't even want him. Bucky screamed at him like some petulant child! He's a fuck up. But there's a fire, a driving need to get back to the man who knows more about him than anyone. He's not sure how to explain it, why it scares him so. But the desperation frightens him even more. Maybe he's afraid Steve will leave him alone in this life. He'll have nothing to live for, he'll just be a discarded puppet. All he knows is that Steve isn't like that. Steve treats him like a human, and God-heaven-and-hell he can't lose that. He can't lose his humanity, not for a second time. Please-oh-please-oh-please, let him reach Steve.

He drags his whole body through the open wound he has made on the door—an apt description of the damage he has done to the barrier.

One of the electric arrows narrowly misses him and rebounds off the first layer of shattered glass.

Before he even consciously registers it, he's running across tarmac, the blood from his leg cascading as a dark shadow starts to hover in his mind.

 **Get away from those arrows.**  
 **Get to Steve.**  
 **Do not engage enemy.**  
 **Flee.**

Bullets are flying everywhere. He's guessing the sentries on duty aren't heeding that no kill order.

 **No kill order.**  
 **No kill.**  
 **Disarm. Disarm.**

He ducks behind a vehicle, finally taking in his surroundings. There's cloudy weather overhead, but it's not raining. And wherever he is, it's surrounded by vast ocean, as far as he can see. He's not sure swimming is a viable option. He needs aircraft.

There are two jets and one helicopter on the tarmac. A jet would be faster, but more conspicuous. In every facet of his mind, he knows he should take a jet.

He makes a mad dash for the helicopter instead.

Likelihood of survival has dropped by 93%.

"Commander!" Someone shouts as he climbs into the cab.

"Take him out!"

The blades are going. He ducks to avoid the bullet spray that shatters his front windshield and leaves small holes through the body of the aircraft.

Manoeuvring the machine, it lifts off the ground and he immediately angles it away from the direction of gunfire.

A stray bullet from the sentry tower catches him in the shoulder.

He lets out a bitten off yell, but he doesn't let go of the controls. He keeps a firm grip, knuckles going white. The tail swerves and takes out two men as he puts a hand against his collarbone and applies pressure.

 **Flee.**  
 **Flee.**  
 **Flee.**  
 **ESCAPE.**

Something whizzes past the window and explodes in the ocean. That was too close.

He doesn't look to see what it was, but he knows it was loud. It reminds him of war. Of missions past and war. In his paranoid mind, he half expects mustard gas to come out of head set. One can't be too cautious when it comes to war. Mm. Maybe the meds haven't quite worn off yet.

The helicopter flies over the tarmac and he rises into the hazy sky. Quickly, he reaches a height far enough up that the bullets now miss.

With deliberate force, he jams two fingers into his shoulder and pulls out the bullet embedded there with an agonised hiss. He won't be able to make good use of his right arm for a couple of days, but that's okay. It will heal. The bullet in his leg however, will have to wait until he reaches land.

It doesn't take them long though. He should've blown those fucking planes up! Why the hell didn't he blow the goddamn jets up!

The screaming in his head has completely stopped, but he starts to wonder if that's really a good thing. It's been replaced with pure panic.

He makes a split second decision. The jets are coming up too fast. They're armed and they will blow him out of the sky without question, he's fully aware of this.

This might just be the last stupid decision he ever makes. Taking one calming breath, he lets the world around him still, for just a moment, then he throws himself out the shattered front window of the helicopter, half a whispered prayer on his lips.

With hands strapped across his chest, legs straight out, hair whipping across his face without mercy, he plummets into the freezing ocean.

* * *

...he aches. Unforgivably. All over. His wounds sting awfully, his arm is waterlogged, his twitching eyelids don't want to stay open. With every inhalation it feels like someone poured acid down his throat.

Ugh.

The beach sand feels too soft in his flesh hand, but scratches painfully over the rest of him, like he towelled himself off with gritty sandpaper.

He coughs up a lungful of sea water and buries his hands in the sand, his limbs trembling with the effort. He's exhausted, but he can't rest yet. He has to find shelter, find protection from S.H.I.E.L.D. whom he knows is coming after him. He's not stupid enough to think they'd fall for him dropping into ocean and "drowning". There have been far more elaborate and convoluted "deaths"— Steve told him about a man named Fury, a director of S.H.I.E.L.D. he'd apparently tried to assassinate, though he'd failed. He's merely put them off his trail for a bit.

With a broken, shuddering exhalation, he drags himself upright, staggering a little under his enervation, his shaking knees barely supporting his heavy frame.

Swinging his head back, he finds the sky a mixture of deep purples and velvet navy colours. The action results in his wet hair plastering itself to his face. He swipes it out of his eyes with the back of his hand and quickly realises his mistake in that he can feel the particles of sand he's left on his skin.

It being dusk won't keep S.H.I.E.L.D. off his back though.

He starts heading up the beach. Each step exponentially more difficult than the last.

The sudden sound of gunfire goes off.

He drops to the ground, eyes darting around, looking for the source of the sound.

He hears yelling. Orders. He feels the wetness and the warmth of blood on his hands, the familiarity of the rifle that has made callouses on his fingers.

He tries to breath evenly but…

Shouldn't the meds have worn off by now?

He slams his eyes shut and waits for the sounds around him to die away. They do, eventually. He focuses on the sand rubbing against his skin, the bits of it that have slipped inside his jumpsuit and made it into his underwear. He focuses on the here and now.

When he opens his eyes, the beach is empty. The waves roll in and crash calmly upon its shore. It isn't covered with corpses or stained with crimson blood, guts don't lie about, scattered like flotsam and jetsam that has washed in from the sea.

It is quiet.

He draws another rasping breath and hauls himself over the sand dunes on all fours, too shaken to stand again.

It only lasted a moment. A minute at best. But the flashbacks are getting worse.

He remembers the memories his brain gave him when Steve was there. Those were nice. Why can't he get more of those memories? They were fine. Even when those memories were of war, he never felt scared for himself when Steve was in them. Mind, he felt terrified for Steve because the stupid punk found a way to follow him to war, but that fear was different. Not the same.

His progress over the sand dunes is slow. The hills are riddled with thorny plants that cling to his clothing and he's too afraid to walk like a regular person. He wants to rest, but a bigger part of him presses to go forward, insists in his fractured, fragile brain that they need to hide. Need to find a safe place. For the first time in months, he is glad he can't fall asleep on his own. Or else he probably would have by now.

The night gets noisy. His brain starts to scream at him again. The beach nightlife joins in. Animals scream bloody murder into the dark sky with its waning crescent moon.

It is by sheer luck that he finds a barn. He climbs into the hay loft and nestles amongst the straw, burying himself deep into the scratchy bedding. There is now straw in his underpants, at least the sand between his butt cheeks won't get lonely.

He waits for unconsciousness to take him, but it doesn't do so until the early hours of the morning. He dreams a familiar dream of death. And he dreams about Steve.


	3. III Blink

Cenotaph

Winter's cold but it's not spiteful,

It's old and wise and beautifully insightful,

It understands what's in the heart,

It knows its way around the earth,

It knows of every death and every birth.

So off you go into the winter clouds old friend,

There to weep and there to smile and mend,

To meet the sun and feel delightful.

Winter's cold but it's not spiteful.

— Michael Leunig

 **III. Blink.**

"You're kidding, right?" Steve asks, feeling the blood rush out of his face.

A frisson of white, volcanic rage rushes through him; he physically cannot pass out unless hit hard enough, but the shock and anger kind of makes him wish to be able to. There's a lurid contrariety of his antithetical needs—one voice demanding he collapse in despair, one demanding he throw himself out the window.

Romanoff's eyes dart to Barton for reassurance as she hesitates, searching for recourse from anywhere she can find. For a moment, Steve could swear she looked contrite, but the expression was ephemeral, replaced by a face of marble.

"No," she finally answers, her perfunctorily given admittance to Bucky's escape grinding against Steve's patience like fingernails down a blackboard. A sound that makes him wish to gouge his eardrums out and rip out her vocal chords.

"No, Rogers, he broke out around fourteen-hundred hours yesterday. We haven't been able to locate him since, but we're ninety-six percent sure he survived the jump from the helicopter and his body hasn't been found so we're quite confident he's managed to swim to shore."

Steve loses it.

A torrent of expletives flies out of his mouth and he punches through the tower's common room wall.

"Easy there Cap," says Tony in a tremulous voice, huffed out on a mirthless attempt at laughter. "… breathe Bruce."

Steve's gaze snaps over to Banner so quickly that he nearly gives himself whiplash, only to find the man a picture of calm. But Tony's words worked.

He can't take this out on others, none of them deserve his anger, not even Romanoff who promised to watch over Bucky while he was away. Now he feels horrible for even losing his temper like that. He feels the guilty weight of his ignominious outburst, but a twisted bitterness settles in his stomach.

"…I'm sorry," he apologises, his untenable emotions losing all their heat as he takes a seat on the sofa. Running a hand through his blonde crop of hair, his head hangs defeatedly. He wants to cry. He practically wants to throw himself off the building, but he doesn't do either. He just takes a shaky breath.

"I knew I shouldn't have left like that," he says, looking down at his clasped hands with anxiety and regret. "I knew I should've stayed until he woke up."

"Steve," Romanoff interrupts, sitting down on the couch beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "This isn't your fault."

"How am I not at least partially to blame!" He exclaims. "I didn't leave him on the best of terms and I knew the mission would keep me away! Bucky deserves better than that. I should've stayed until he woke, I should have made peace between us, but…"

The room goes silent as Steve buries his tearful face into his hands again.

"How could I have thought giving him some time was the right answer? … I was, I'm just…"

"Steve," Barton chips in. "That's normal. You're only human. You need a break every once in a while."

The room goes silent again. Everyone is watching him, watching the cogs in his brain turn as he wonders how he can still shoulder the blame and not sound ridiculous about it. Steve feels the blame like a hot branding iron across his heart. He wants to simultaneously sink into the floor and be dragged out on public display.

Natasha is the first to interrupt the quiet scene.

"Look Steve, mistakes? They don't matter right now. Put the past behind you. What matters right now is finding him, finding Barnes and getting him some place safe where he can't hurt himself or anyone else."

He nods in agreement, but there's no confidence in his body. He feels bland and defeatist.

"Listen, I think he's confused and can't control himself. I think he's coming for you, Steve, but whether he plans to kill you or make peace, that's a whole different kind of speculation." She continues.

"He won't kill me."

"That's quite confident of you, Cap." Banner pipes up, his eyes pinning a needle-point stare at Steve, folding his arms as he settles more comfortably against the table.

"And if you don't mind me saying," Stark chips in. "An awfully arrogant conjecture."

Romanoff throws him a sharp, acerbic look that Steve would prefer to never be on the receiving end of, but Stark either doesn't notice or doesn't care. Also, a hypocritical statement, coming from him.

"You don't know what he's like right now Cap, you don't." Stark lectures, emphasising when it looks like Rogers is about to protest. "His brain is recovering from seventy years of repeated trauma. Hell, for all we know he's regressing and he thinks you're still his target. What will you do if you find him like that?"

"I will knock him out and bring him home if he doesn't coming willingly."

He receives flat, disbelieving stares from nearly everyone in the room.

"What?" He questions defensively. It's a sad day when the team thinks Stark is being more reasonable than he.

"We're just more dubious about that being a viable option, Steve." Says Romanoff. "And even if it were, what's to say you can't do it at the last minute, or if he bests you first?"

"I'll bring back up," he counters, immediately turning to Sam, who's lurking by the dart board with Barton. "Sam?"

Wilson stands a little taller.

"Of course. You know I will."

He raises an eyebrow at Romanoff. She frowns back.

"Steve, I know you think you know what he's like right now, where his head is at, but after you left… he was kind of a mess."

Steve turns on her fiercely, rage blossoming in his chest. "I don't think leaving him in the care of S.H.I.E.L.D. did him any good either. I'm bringing him home and I'll be damned, Natasha, if you or anyone tries to stop me!"

He feels something in his mouth go sour and feels the pang in his chest as a memory of his Bucky, his soft but fiercely loyal friend, arises in him. The fight washes away.

"You don't understand," he continues, tone subdued now. "You can't understand. Bucky he, he's done so much for me and I feel like I've never managed to accomplish anything! All I do is let him down. He's suffering, Nat. Why can't you people realise that? I don't think he wants to be a threat, I just think he's scared and doesn't remember how not to be."

There's an empty space where everyone else's words died on their tongues, a lacuna of silence.

Once again however, it's Romanoff who interrupts it.

"I'm coming with you too," she says, surprising most of the people in the room. "The more of us there are, the more likely our chances of taking him out without serious injury, to either party."

Barton nods in agreement as he announces his intentions of joining the team.

"Alright," Steve concedes, an unhappy frown on his face. "But we need to bring him in as gently as we can. I don't want to spook him or hurt him."

Natasha nods before adding,

"I hope you're right about him, Steve. I hope he's more the Bucky you remember, rather than the soldier I remember seeing."

* * *

Barnes blinks his eyes open and twists his head to glare at the filtering stream of sunlight pouring in through a crack in the wood. He'd very much like to hiss at it, but it won't do anything. Also, he's not a cat or a vampire or a vampire-cat-hybrid, however much the concept of sounds appealing.

He figures it must be well into the day, perhaps even mid-afternoon. He slept well. He dreamt of Steve in old man pants with braces, wearing one horrendously ugly plaid shirt and a green jacket two sizes too big. But he knows he dreamt of other things too, scarier, more frightening things. He knows only because he can feel the wetness between his legs and can smell the wafting scent of urine.

Oddly, he feels embarrassed. There's no one around and he doesn't have to tell anybody; it isn't like this is new either. During his days with H.Y.D.R.A. he'd had similar experiences, but that had never left him feeling embarrassed, not that he can remember. Regaining one's humanity is a strange and emotionally unbalancing process. He's still not entirely sure he wouldn't rather be put back on ice. It would be much easier, and his mission: locate Steve Rogers, would be but a forgotten dream. He could just hide in the ice until they pulled him out and wiped him clean, then he wouldn't even have to think about Steve or remember bittersweet and pleasurable-painful memories. But that would mean mission failure and he can't have that. H.Y.D.R.A. doesn't tolerate failure, he remembers, and that has been ingrained into his bones and every neuron in his brain.

He shudders as a sickening feeling, accompanied by a screaming memory, appears in the forefront of his mind. He pushes it down and takes a number of steadying breaths to calm himself.

Far more fortuitously, S.H.I.E.L.D. hasn't located him yet. He doesn't quite know why, he half expected them to be in the barn when he woke up, but they're not and he won't waste minor miracles when they're given.

He still has to deal with the bullet in his calf, he doesn't really think it will come out without tweezers or pliers or something. The wound is already starting to heal and if he doesn't do it soon, it will close over with the bullet still inside.

Ugh. The worst.

He stands and stretches, joints cracking, pain in his upper torso and shoulders alerting him to a maintenance problem. He'd completely forgotten about the tears in his muscles—logical, considering the innumerable wipes of his mind. It only hurt during rough missions, but nothing had ever been done about it. Not by S.H.I.E.L.D. and certainly not by H.Y.D.R.A. He wonders how long it will last. Deep freeze certainly helped, but Steve won't allow that. He knows because he's asked, been rejected and denied, his plea abnegated eternally.

He alights smoothly down from the hay loft, scanning the barn for any intrusive company. But it is just as quiet as when he climbed up.

He strips immediately out of the orange jumpsuit, he doesn't need to weigh up the pros and cons clothing versus getting shot by a trigger happy policeman or an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., there's no contest. His underwear needs washing, but hopefully he can steal some from the next house he crosses, along with some appropriate clothing. Something subtle, black, a cap maybe, to hide his face.

Leaving his prison outfit in the barn, he finds the breeze of the outside air far more refreshing than desired. His skin prickles and the hairs on his arms stand on end. The ocean breeze drifting in from the beach a few miles away doesn't help any, it will be less windy when he goes further inland… he hopes. But priorities now are to find the nearest house and burgle them of their clothes. He's just slept in a barn, surely a house can't be too far.

Wrapping his arms around his torso to shield him from some of the cold, he heads off in the direction he thinks he can hear highway sounds coming from.

Turns out, the first house Bucky comes across is run by a hipster lesbian couple who run a small vegan farm and make handmade soaps on the side.

In essence, nothing they own fits him, but he steals an olive green hat, a floral print dress and eight plums from the backyard before taking off. The dress is nice, even if all it does is cover his modesty. What he wouldn't give to be back in combat boots, bulletproof vest and strapped with forty guns and twenty-eight knives. It would certainly be warmer, if nothing else. After all, it isn't exactly the height of summer.

The next house he comes across finds him more favourably.

He ditches the dress (which continues to get caught between his legs thanks to the breeze) and also underwear, and exchanges them for boxer briefs with fire patterns and crossbones all over them, baggy black cargo pants, grey flannel shirt, a black biker jacket that is slightly too small over his arms and workman boots that are definitely a size too small and rub at the sides of his feet and the backs of his heels.

He also takes all six knifes from the wooden block in the kitchen and fortunately doesn't have to stab any of the occupants of the house, who are all off enjoying their vacation— if the note left for their housekeeper is any indication. He finds a small pair of pliers in the third draw down in the kitchen.

It is a big family, he learns from the pictures on the fridge. Seven people, two adults and five children, ages ranging from roughly eleven through to twenty. They are quite religious. There are hanging wooden crosses in every room.

A brief flash of an old, hazy memory assaults Bucky's mind. He remembers sitting on a hard pew, he was watching Steve. Steve was… on his knees. Hands clasped together, eyes squinted shut. Steve was small then. Bucky doesn't remember what Steve was praying about, but the scene was sombre.

He pockets one of the smaller crosses.

As he leaves the house, he almost feels his mouth twitch with contentment. To counter this strange facial desire, he shoves two plums at his mouth and eats them concurrently.

The "retail" therapy was a cathartic and prosperous adventure. Plums help in mood maintenance too. He can feel the juices running down his face, but he swipes the liquid away with the back of his newly acquired biker jacket, nicknamed "The Battle Jacket" by the label on the inside pocket, sewn there by its previous owner. It's a fitting name, he thinks. The plums help fill the gaping void in his stomach, the gnawing monster he'd ignored, but at the first taste of food had reawakened. Fortunately, he thinks eight plums will be enough to satisfy the hunger.

He hopes the rest of his week is just as relaxing. Having knives on his person quiets the white noise and screaming in his head to a dull hiss, like the static of a television in a different room. It's much easier to ignore. The way he can feel himself coming back from the edge of feral is a step up too. But he somewhat wonders if that's a good thing. He can feel the sleeping soldier inside him, the one that only connects with Bucky when he is unconscious or his life is in danger. The soldier doesn't control him anymore, but he certainly doesn't control the soldier either. The two distinct parts of him—Soldier and "Bucky", (he's not really sure what to call them, but the names have stuck in his mind)—are like twins, opposite sides of the same coin. Perhaps they were one person once, maybe this is why the twins analogy seems to fit more logically than any other description. However, he can't consolidate them now. They will never be one person anymore. They will always be two separate individuals, and this makes both parts of him feel sad and bitter and anguished. They have differing opinions of almost everything, but this seems to be the original thread that's always connected them, even when Steve was their mission.


	4. IV A glimpse in the dark, covets echoes

Cenotaph

" _Before the Second World War, I believed in the perfectibility of social man…_

 _But after the war I did not._

 _I had discovered what one man could do to another…_

 _Anyone who moved through those years without understanding that man produces evil as a bee produces honey, must have been blind or wrong in the head."_

— William Golding

 **IV. A glimpse in the dark, covets echoes of the mind.**

It's gotta come out sometime.

With a hiss through his teeth, Barnes manages to extract the bullet from his leg. He's glad he pilfered those pliers; this could've ended up far worse.

He can feel the gun shot wound trying to close. It's painful, it's always painful, but he's had worse. Ain't that the truth. Though he still wishes he hadn't been shot.

He glares at the shiny little thing with malevolence. Stupid piece of crap. He'd like his fists to have a conversation with that red-head who shot him. Though he thinks she might be more of a challenge than he can take right now. If he wasn't highly trained, he might think her capable of remorse, but he saw her cold eyes. She isn't losing any sleep over shooting at him, and he won't lose any sleep over her death when he gets his chance.

Discarding the pliers into the bathroom sink, he examines the wound. Fresh blood makes what was brown and crusty, vivid again. He applies pressure for twenty minutes until the bleeding slows to an unsteady trickle, then he leaves it alone, knowing the bleeding will have completely stopped by morning.

He glances around the bathroom and finds a towel, upon which he wipes the blood from his soiled hands. He didn't pay for this. Obviously.

He was picked up along the highway by a man, around thirty-five years of age. He offered Barnes a lift.

"Where're you goin' kid?" He'd asked.

He'd shrugged. Also, probability that this man was older than him, less than one percent, therefore the usage of the term "kid", incorrect, but he hadn't bothered correcting him.

"Don't know." He'd replied.

The driver had grinned at him. An understanding kind of expression, a face full of more wisdom and kindness than he'd seen in a long time. Other than… _him_ , of course. _Steve_. But he had still always had that hint of sorrow in his face. He never showed the full truth of his feelings, Steve kept them guarded. For his sake or Bucky's, he didn't know.

He'd been wary of the guy, but he could take this man out in a minute if he gave him any trouble. He was a weapon, his reason for existing: to cause harm, drilled into the very marrow of his bones.

"Me neither," he'd said. "Hop in."

The guy had dropped him at the motel, telling him, "You stay outta trouble now. Don't go getting lifts from strangers that seem off."

Bucky had nodded. Did this man know he was in trouble? No. That would be illogical. No one would be kind to him if they knew who, and what, he truly was.

The room he stands in now— borrowed for the night— isn't anything more than a bed and a sink and toilet. Home sweet home; just like S.H.I.E.L.D.'s set up.

He briefly wonders if Steve knows he broke out.

A heavy sigh escapes his lips.

How did Steve react to the news?

Best not to speculate.

Bucky exits the bathroom and switches the room light off. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he stares blankly out at the dark night sky, illuminated only by the wide full moon that claims the firmament as its home.

He won't sleep. Of course. His arm whirs, resetting bits and piece of itself. His brain makes white noise. His flesh hand clutches a knife.

The night holds him prisoner to his own instinct.

Bad things happen at night. To other's by him. To him by others.

His body shivers with anxiety. His teeth clack together and he has to grind them shut until it becomes painful to do so. His gums throb from the effort.

He's scared. God, he's scared.

Scared that S.H.I.E.L.D. might burst through the door in their black ops gear with their guns and tranquilliser darts. Or worse. H.Y.D.R.A. And he knows, with almost near certainty that if he cannot escape from them, he will be pulled back under the dark waters where his mind is muddy, where any goodness he has as a person will be ripped away from him and replaced by orders and pain. He won't be _him_ anymore.

He isn't safe. He's always scared. Or angry. He wants to feel safe. He wants… he fucking wants peace. And… hell, he just wants Steve. He just doesn't know how to get him back. After all, what is he going to do when he finds him? Barnes hardly believes that Steve will be so kind and gentle as to let him stay by his side. No one is that kind or gentle. There is only pain and suffering and obedience, not just with H.Y.D.R.A., but within life. It has been this way since the day of his birth, he knows it, he can feel it in the essence of his being. The same essence that has been mutilated and assaulted time and again. The part of him that he shuns for being needy and weak and for just existing at all. And yet, he cannot tear himself away from the idea that Steve just will be that forgiving. He was so soft, whenever he visited he was. Soft. He didn't get angry. He didn't expect anything, though Bucky knows he was still a disappointment, somehow.

His mind feels adrift. It doesn't know what it wants, other than to war with itself.

…

Oddly enough, he finds himself… waking, when the morning comes around.

He just blinks at first, wondering what happened. Then,

It becomes clear.

He bolts off the bed, staring at it open mouthed like it just committed an atrocity.

Sleep. He fell asleep.

He feels the blood drain from his face.

He must've fallen asleep sitting upright. Yes, he feels the tell-tale crick in his neck.

His head swings back and forth between the door and the window so fast that he gives himself whiplash.

He checks the window lock.

Sealed.

He crosses the room and checks the door bolt.

Sealed.

He paces and waits for his racing heart to slow.

He breathes in. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. He breathes out. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

He repeats and his stuttering heart starts to slow incrementally.

Fuck.

He sits on the bed and runs a hand—his hand, made of flesh and bone, not the one they forced on him—through his hair. Fingers snag on tangles and he finds himself clutching onto them with his fingers rather than pulling free. He yanks at his hair until his scalp hurts. He cries too. Big ugly sobs, echoes of confusion, sounds of fear.

The world makes him feel like he has been spinning for far too long. Which way is up, which way is down. Don't know. What is good, what is safe? Don't know. Safe isn't really anything more than an abstract, inchoate concept right now. How is he supposed to feel safe when he doesn't even know what it is?

How the fuck did he fall asleep!?

It shouldn't even be possible.

He doesn't fall asleep. He's just not capable of being that calm. He's a weapon of alertness, he only stops when the absolute end of his tether has been reached.

Except, he apparently had.

What… what does this mean?

The void of his empty brain doesn't answer the question. It is unusually quiet. The voices are humming at him. He doesn't fucking know what that means.

He sits on the floor.

He breathes.

He waits for stillness to settle around him, but not within him.

Then, when his legs no longer shake like those of a newborn calf, he stands.

He collects The Battle Jacket off the chair.

Opens the window. And jumps down, his knees feeling the landing more than he'd thought they would. They're not exactly new knees. They've been through a lot, just like the rest of him.

…

The rest of his day is like a repeat of the previous.

He hitches several rides from truck drivers and motoring men and one woman who wears a jacket similar to his and deems herself unafraid of him. It's a nice gesture on her behalf, even if terribly stupid. But she doesn't know what he was, what he _is_ , neither does any of the rest, and he hardly believes they would accept them into their vehicles if they knew.

Unfortunately, he does have to threaten a guy with one of his knives when the asinine man—approximately mid to late fifties or early sixties, balding—allows his hand to encroach on the front of Bucky's pants. Balding guy has a gun on his person too—(an early Christmas gift for Barnes? He really shouldn't have)—and Bucky takes that with a perverse sense of glee. It feels like part of him is rubbing his hands together and chuckling with delight, but he doesn't want to look too deeply into which part of him that this is. A different part of him feels revolted, but he ignores that. That part doesn't know jack shit.

He holds the knife to the guy's neck for one full minute and watches with a strange fascination as the man's face turns from rosy to ashen. Without asking Barnes' opinion, his brain calculates all six ways with which he could kill this man, steal his car and make sure none were the wiser. It does so with a disturbingly unnerving sense of alacrity.

But he doesn't.

He thinks that Steve will pull that sad, disappointed face at him if he does. He can picture those clear, sky blue eyes with just a hint of green around the iris, turning deep and expressing hurt. Silently asking him why he chose to kill this man when he could've just as easily walked away.

So he leaves the man in his car and hitches a ride from somebody else, several more miles up the road at a tiny gas station with only one pump and an owner who looks so old, Bucky can't help but mutely compare him to a dried prune.

Well into the late afternoon, (perhaps around five o'clock?), he finds himself at a ramshackle motel called The Paradise Palm. He thinks this is an odd choice for a name considering that there are no palm trees in the vicinity and there haven't been for miles. The last one he saw was in the yard of a transportable house where he presumed a couple of poor retirees lived, given that their colour scheme resembled something one might find in the contents of their vomit. The subsequent generations have all turned out to be a strange bunch. He can hardly tell the difference between their oddities.

The Paradise Palm room he takes is again, small, but easily livable, even if it too reminds him a little of the cell at the S.H.I.E.L.D. facility. It also seems to have a similar colour combination to stomach contents, but who's complaining.

He settles in and finds it easy to do so after the previous night. Practice makes perfect, and right now he's practicing hauling his ass across to New York, where he'll find Steve and deliberate on _if_ and _how_ he should contact him.

The room is a colour combo of yellow and blue pastels and lime green―(a feature wall?). The beds both have red and white striped covers, the lamp shades are a horrible puce and there are cream doilies covering every wooden surface. The colours are grossly overwhelming and he has to sit down for a moment due to the fact that the whole room makes him feel a little dizzy.

The room isn't as clean as the last motel, but it's not the basement of a warehouse, nor does it have any signs of cockroach infestation, which Barnes counts as a win/win. Cockroaches should be avoided because they have a tendency to reside in one's hair when one passes out from fatigue.

Barnes feels himself pull a face at this memory.

He discards his jacket on the second single bed and heads into the equally abhorrent themed bathroom to take advantage of the free soaps.

He didn't shower much at S.H.I.E.L.D. and H.Y.D.R.A. didn't shower him so much as scrub him down with a high pressure hose before each mission, but he remembers how to do it. How to work the soap into a lather. How to scrub the shampoo into his hair. How to comb the conditioner through with his fingers.

He undresses and leaves a pile of clothing outside the bathroom door.

Steam quickly fills the room and the hot water feels nice on his skin, even if the pressure is practically non-existent. Eventually he just sits down in the tub and allows the water to pour over him.

The shower is therapeutic, cleansing, and not just in a physical way. He closes his eyes and lies back.

This is nice.

It gives him time to deliberate over what he's going to do when he gets to New York. Except his mind buzzes over every idea and discards each and all of them.

Half an hour passes before he finds himself ready to get out. His skin feels wrinkly and his mouth feels dehydrated. His own autonomy is irritating him, he wishes someone would just tell him how to make contact with Steve, rather than making him work out what the correct procedure is. What if he doesn't do it right and everything falls apart?

He dries. He dresses. He dismisses his unhelpful musings and focuses on other tasks, like removing the stolen gun, a pistol he can't identify, from his stolen jacket and stashing it under his pillow alongside a knife. He checks the window locks and the door lock. Secure.

With nothing else to do, he lays down on the bed and closes his eyes, just to rest them. He hums for a bit to pass the time; a song he doesn't recall the lyrics of, but it's entertaining and he thinks the words that go with it are in Russian. His body feels thankful for the stillness and rest. His screaming brain isn't screaming, it's just a little above a murmur and it's awfully peaceful.

He watches the sun disappear, he watches darkness replace it.

His joints lock. His body trembles. But he maintains position until an undefinable itch makes him do a perimeter check.

Everything is clear.

He returns to the bed and props himself back against the pillows for a second time. He hums the same song again, hoping it will calm him like last time.

He only realises his fatal mistake when he wakes. (How the fuck did he fall asleep again?!)

Immediately everything kicks into overdrive. His brain shrieks at him and all the voices in his head are like desperate alarms.

There is someone in his room.

His hands grab the knife and the gun from under his pillow and he's thrown the knife before he's wrapped his finger securely around the trigger of the gun.

The other in the room dodges the knife with a shout of alarm and it hits the wall with a heavy ker-thunk, lodging itself in the plaster.

"Bucky!" Yells the other.

He recognises the voice in 0.45 seconds, but he's already fired two shots and he knows that one of them hit.

The light comes on and. confirms. it's. Steve.

 _Steve_.

Steve is standing by the light switch with a hand over a gun shot wound. His eyes look distressed for half a moment, but the distress doesn't seem to be for himself and it changes to relief when he searches Barnes' own eyes and finds recognition there.

"Buck." Steve's voice breaks and Barnes drops the gun.

He's over by Steve's side in a moment, covering Steve's wound with both of his own hands to stem to flow of blood, applying pressure.

"Bucky." Steve wheezes when he accidentally applies a little to much pressure across Steve's ribs.

Barnes doesn't answer. His mind howls with a wild hysteria.

 _He shot Steve._

He can barely focus on anything other than the red that seems to be gushing out of Steve's body. He almost doesn't hear it before she lands.

"Step away from him, soldier." She says. Her voice cold, full of ice.

It's that fucking red-head. The one his fists would still like to have a conversation with. His hands are occupied currently though.

"I said step. away."

Barnes reluctantly removes his hands from side of Steve's torso and presses Steve's own hand there with a silent demand that he push as firmly as possible.

He backs up, hands raised in the air as she orders him to turn around and presses a gun to the back of his head.

Someone else comes in. He can't see them with his forehead up against the wall, but he quickly understands that whoever else is there with them is treating Steve with first aid.

He remains passive and pliable to the red-head's will. His brain doesn't stop screaming out: YOU HURT HIM. A vicious, repeating alarm.

"Natasha," he hears from Steve's croaky voice. "Don't—"

And he feels the needle go into his arm. A jab far worse than a pin prick. It's like she found the biggest needle she could.

It's weird how this is the thing he focuses on before he feels his brain shut off.


	5. V Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

Cenotaph

—

 _A free bird leaps on the back  
Of the wind and floats downstream  
Till the current ends and dips his wing  
In the orange suns rays  
And dares to claim the sky._

 _But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage_  
 _Can seldom see through his bars of rage_  
 _His wings are clipped and his feet are tied_  
 _So he opens his throat to sing._

 _The caged bird sings with a fearful trill_  
 _Of things unknown but longed for still_  
 _And his tune is heard on the distant hill for_  
 _The caged bird sings of freedom._

 _The free bird thinks of another breeze_  
 _And the trade winds soft through_  
 _The sighing trees_  
 _And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright_  
 _Lawn and he names the sky his own._

 _But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams_  
 _His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream_  
 _His wings are clipped and his feet are tied_  
 _So he opens his throat to sing._

 _The caged bird sings with_  
 _A fearful trill of things unknown_  
 _But longed for still and his_  
 _Tune is heard on the distant hill_  
 _For the caged bird sings of freedom._

\- Maya Angelou

—

 **V.** **Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?**

When Bucky wakes, he feels a pooling pit of dread fill his stomach before he opens his eyes. He almost can't force his eyelids open because to do so would be to let reality in—the reality of his situation, whatever that may be, is surely not a fortuitous one.

He semi-wishes he could feel that wooden cross, stolen from the same house he'd taken those deliciously sharp knives, in his hands. He doesn't really remember if he was a praying man. Obviously, he wasn't praying with Jesus in mind before the war, his family was Jewish, but he knows with absolute certainty that the "Soldat" he'd been turned into, the "Asset" of evil, did not believe in gods or fate. After all, the people he'd served then felt larger than life. They were his gods; Zola, Pierce and countless other handlers whose faces blurred into each other. However, he'd give almost anything to be able to blindly place his faith in a god that might not even exist, like Steve. He wishes with an almost feverish desperation that he could have something and claim it as his own, like a faith, a religion.

But he just can't. Because if there were a god, why did that entity make him suffer so? Why continue to punish him? What had he done to deserve such torture?

He squeezes his eyes shut for good measure as he breathes in deeply through his nose. The red-head knocked him unconscious in the motel, The Paradise Palm, with some sort of super fast acting drug—clearly designed with super soldiers in mind—and god knows where she's left him.

His mouth feels parched and he finds it hard to swallow. His lungs feel like they're filled with liquid or phlegm. It's an effort to force his jaw apart too, like somebody's found the muzzle Pierce forced upon him. It locked his jaw shut and he strongly remembers the sensation of sharp, pointed pain along the hard palate of his mouth when Steve ripped it out during their fight upon the bridge. That memory returned to him a lot more quickly than desired. He wishes he'd received fluffier memories, which had eventually filtered in after the wake of nightmarish ones.

He's got this gut wrenching fear he's back at S.H.I.E.L.D., but he hopes to whatever god's got their listening ears on, that he isn't.

Bracing himself with every open-ended, raw nerve of his being, he tentatively opens his eyes, blinking a few times to get rid of the hazy film that lies over them.

This is not S.H.I.E.L.D.

That's the first thing that hits him. It comes as more of a surprise than he could have predicted. The walls are not padded, the room is filled with things; clothes scattered on the floor, picture frames with people in them (including ones of him), a dresser, a mirror, a drawer. Someone's dressed him in blue-checked pyjamas. They are possibly the ugliest pyjamas he's ever seen in his life.

This is not a prison cell, this is a bedroom and he's lying on rumpled sheets. He notices the puddle of drool he's left on the pillow and he quirks, almost balks, at how normal this scene seems. How ordinary. Where the hell is he? Where did that red-head take him?

He hears a car horn go off from somewhere in the distance.

He blinks a few more times, wondering if this is just his mind hallucinating what he wants to see.

He touches the drawers. Seems real enough.

Swinging his legs out from under the covers, he touches his toes to the carpet floor. His legs are shaky, they feel as if they'll collapse right out from underneath him. Slowly, he starts applying more weight and he uses the bed and drawers for support until his legs start to feel steadier.

He almost tip-toes across the room to where there is a door. It will be interesting to see if it opens.

It does.

Then, he's assaulted by sounds and smells.

There's a TV playing baseball at a near mute level, a radio playing a tune Bucky knows he recognises from his past until it ends and the radio announces says he's listening to the one-oh-four classics station, and a coffee machine which smells freshly of ground beans.

"You're awake."

He flinches away from the voice, even though there's a familiar quality to it. When he turns, he finds exactly who he's expecting.

"I was starting to worry; for a second there I thought you were never gonna wake up."

Steve's voice is bright and cheerful as he beams broadly, one hand on his hip, the other holding the coffee Barnes can smell. But Bucky doesn't know what to say. Honestly, he's still processing this new development, trying to wrap his head around this whole thing. What whole thing? Hell, he doesn't even know what the fuck is going on or where he is! All he knows is that Steve is here with him where Bucky can keep an eye on the lemming of a man.

Steve's expression falters before he reaffirms it with a hint more determination than before. Like he's challenging Bucky.

"You hungry?" Steve asks.

He deliberates, then nods jerkily.

Steve's posture relaxes a little. He guides Bucky to a bar stool at the island counter in the kitchen, making sure not to touch him, and Bucky sits placidly on the stool provided.

"Eggs okay?" Steve questions, his back turned, throwing the query over his shoulder. Bucky could've sworn he heard an unintended tremble in Steve's voice, but perhaps it was his imagination playing tricks.

He hums in reply, staring at Steve's broad back, looking for any further signs of distress.

Six eggs are soon frying away in the pan atop the stove. It's only then that Steve faces him again, albeit this time with a more serious expression across his features.

"What were you doing, Buck? What were you thinking, hm?" Steve sighs out, as if he's not really expecting an answer, but he asks anyway. "Breaking out of the S.H.I.E.L.D facility, crossing half the country by yourself."

It was hardly half the country Steve, come on.

Steve presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and then runs a heavy hand through his blonde crop of hair—a move of distress Bucky's seen countless times.

"Hell, Bucky, I was so god damn worried about you!"

Steve's tone nearly comes out as a snarl on the last part. He's talking as if he's confident he won't get a reply. Barnes is content not to give him one. It's not a question, just a statement, he's been tricked by handlers before, but he feels like Steve wouldn't ever punish him for something so slight.

Steve's balled hands are shaking now.

"I wish I knew what was going through your head." He says, turning back to the eggs.

Barnes suddenly feels like he's intruded into Steve's peaceful life. Like he doesn't belong, he's out of place.

He slides off the chair silently and retreats to the corner of the room. If Steve won't punish him, then he'll have to do it himself. Sitting in the corner, he faces the wall and the screaming in his brain gets louder in the absence of visual stimulation.

He flinches when he feels a hand fall on his shoulder, but Steve releases him pretty quickly.

"What are you doing, Buck? Your eggs are going to get cold." He says, his voice strained for some reason. Another sign of distress, Barnes notes.

He lets Steve guide him back to his seat and push a fork into his hand when he doesn't pick it up.

He watches Steve and Steve anxiously watches him.

"What's wrong?" He eventually asks, eyebrows furrowing together. "You can eat, Buck."

An order. He can follow an order.

He eats his eggs and asks himself he is progressing or regressing. It's hard to tell them apart in all honesty. Back at the Paradise Palm, he never even thought about punishment, let alone applying it to himself, but now he's not in control anymore. Steve is. Steve is in control… of him? His brain is glitching. He shakes his head, his mop of hair flops over his eyes.

Does this mean… is Steve his new handler? No that can't be right… can it? But he should follow Steve's orders, Steve is a Captain and he is a Sargent and he follows Steve's orders… except when they're fighting in the streets? Then he chews Steve out for picking fights he knows he can't win. Fuck. This is so confusing. But he said he'd follow Steve, he promised him, "to the end of the line" he'd said. Steve had said that back to him on the flying helicarier too. But he's still mad at Steve for finding his way into the war. And why couldn't he just stay at home in Brooklyn where it was safe and where Bucky wouldn't have to worry about him!

He drops his fork. It clatters to the ground.

"Bucky?"

Steve's there in an instant, retrieving the fork, but watching as Bucky presses fingers into his temples.

"What's happening, Bucky, what's going on. Talk to me." Steve orders. A hand reaches out, as if to grip Bucky by the shoulder, but it stalls at the last minute.

Bucky doesn't want to reply. He doesn't want to open his mouth and accidentally yell at Steve like last time. But it's an order. _It's an order._

"Headache." He lies.

Steve looks surprised. Maybe that Bucky said anything at all, but of course Barnes would, it was an order.

"Do you need to lie down?" Steve asks.

He nods hesitantly.

Steve takes him back to the same bedroom as before and settles him comfortably between the sheets.

"I'll just be in the kitchen if you need me, okay Buck?"

Bucky nods and closes his eyes, wishing the jumbled memories away. The puddle of drool from earlier has dried, he notes.

Steve doesn't close the door on his way out. Bucky hears him briefly rest against the door frame before turning out the light. A moment later, the TV and the radio both go off and silence surrounds him. He's swimming in it. He figures sleep will elude him, which it does, but he enjoys the comfortable silence that is occasionally punctuated with noises from the outside world.

* * *

Steve makes sure to turn off the TV and radio before he settles down with his book on the couch. He hopes Bucky sleeps, but given the reports from S.H.I.E.L.D. about his sleeping patterns before he broke out, Steve isn't hopeful. Then again, he caught Bucky sleeping at the highway motel and that was why he'd been shot. It was a stupid move on his behalf. He shouldn't have snuck up like that.

The bullet wound had been treated as soon as they'd returned to the tower and it was healing nicely, no vigorous exercise for a few days though. Not that he'd be letting Bucky that far out of his sight anyway. He didn't know up from down at this point and he had no clue what Natasha had injected him with, even though he had confidence that she wouldn't harm Bucky.

The intercom buzzes.

He leaves his book on the couch to check who it is.

"Hello?"

"It's me."

Speak of the devil…

"Natasha."

"Is he awake?" She asks.

"Just went back to bed." Steve replies.

"Okay. Can I come in? I want to have a word with you."

"Fine."

He lets her in.

She's her usual picture of lethality and grace. She strides right past him and beelines for the coffee machine, making herself a cup with practiced precision.

"You could make your own coffee in your own apartment." He says with a twinge of irritation.

"Yeah," she says, brushing her hair off her shoulder. "But I didn't and, like I said, I wanted to talk to you."

"About what."

"Him. Obviously."

Her coffee complete, she settles down on his couch. He remains standing.

"How's he doing?"

He can feel himself pull a strange face.

"That bad, huh?" She takes a sip from her mug.

"No, no, not bad at all. He was very calm, but…"

"Something felt off?"

"Yeah. But he was cognisant. I think."

There's a pause. A minute long one in which the only sound is that of Natasha drinking her coffee.

"You still think it was the right idea to bring him here? To let him stay with you?" She asks with a singular raised brow.

"Of course." He defends. "There's no way I'm letting S.H.I.E.L.D. get their hands on him again. Being in that place wasn't helping him, Natasha."

"I'm inclined to agree with you." She replies, pulling out a USB from her pocket.

His eyes narrow suspiciously.

"I did some research." She sets her mug down, the USB beside it. "It looks like they were collecting skin and hair samples and… the psychiatrist wasn't exactly a psychiatrist."

If Bucky hadn't have been in the other room, Steve's sure he would've lost it again.

"What… do you mean?" He struggles to keep expletives out of his sentence.

She gives him a sharp stare, like she knows he's about to lose his patience and control.

"They were using illegal drugs to knock him out. They cause damage to the brain, but they thought we wouldn't notice because he heals so fast that the damage would've been repaired before we were even aware."

Steve can feel all his anger channeling into the fists at his sides.

"And the psychiatrist had a… background."

Natasha hesitates and suddenly, he knows what she's going to say. His gut drops out from under him and his heart skips a beat from the sheer dread.

"He worked for H.Y.D.R.A."

Steve sinks onto the floor, pressing his hands against his face. He doesn't say anything for a long time.

"Steve, I'm sorry."

He can't look at her, but her voice is laced with guilt and she apologises like its her fault, even though Steve knows that really, it isn't.

"Was it just the drugs?" He asks breathily, as if he can't get enough oxygen into his lungs. There are tears threatening at the corners of his eyes and his voice is choking up on him.

"Yes, thankfully." She answers solemnly. "However, it seems there were plans for something far more sinister. I started following the H.Y.D.R.A. operative's trail late yesterday afternoon once we arrived back. Barton had been looking into how Barnes had managed to escape and that's when he found the pills they'd been feeding him. He found it in liquid form too. Bruce identified the drug whilst we collected Sargent Barnes from the motel."

He feels so overwhelmed and defeated by this news, he's too tired to get angry at her.

Natasha stands, leaving her lukewarm mug of coffee and the USB on the table. She has a bad habit of kicking him when he's down, now not being the exception to the rule.

"You should know Steve," she adds. "I will do everything I can to haul this guy before you so you can beat the crap out of him."

It's a joke, a poor one, but he manages to crack a twitch of relief.

"Take care of him," She continues, more seriously, clapping his shoulder softly as she sees herself out. "And yourself. And don't look at that―" she gestures at the USB, "before you're ready."

The room is utterly silent after she leaves.

* * *

When the red-head—Natasha—leaves, Bucky releases a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

He wonders if he'll be punished if either of them learns he's been listening the whole time. He won't tell them, but things seemed to fall into place the more he listened to her quiet, apologetic words.

His psychiatrist was H.Y.D.R.A., huh. It made a lot of sense actually. In all likelihood, the guy was probably some type of handler, waiting to get Bucky with him in a room alone in order to active dormant programming. Or perhaps, given the drugs that were apparently designed to destroyed his brain, the H.Y.D.R.A. operative was trying to erase memories, maybe of Steve? Of S.H.I.E.L.D.? In any case, it was an experience he's glad he escaped.

It goes very quiet after the red-head leaves. All he can hear is silence.

He quietly manoeuvres the covers to the side and slips out of the bed, stepping over each pile of clothes so as not to make a noise.

Reaching the door frame, he immediately sees Steve on the floor, sitting in an expression of distress. That stupid red-head. She's hurt him.

"Are you okay?" He asks, stepping out, walking over slowly.

Steve's head whips up and catches his eyes.

"Bucky," he startles. "I— yeah, I'm fine, I'm okay. What are you doing up? Your headache better?"

He ignores those questions.

"Are you upset?"

Steve jerks.

"What? No! I said I'm fine."

Bucky knows he should stop this. Steve already said he was okay, but for some reason, Barnes doesn't believe him.

He sits next to Steve on the floor and something in the back of his brain, a long lost protocol or a habit perhaps, makes him rest his head on Steve's shoulder.

Steve seems more than just a bit stunned, but Barnes maintains the position and is rewarded in a few moments when Steve relaxes. This feels… oddly natural. He's done this before, but it's like this protocol pathway is rusty and doesn't quite remember how it used to go.

Steve hooks an arm around his shoulders and fingers skim through the hair on the nape of his neck.

This is nice.

They sit for an hour, maybe longer. Steve says something, he thinks, he doesn't quite know. He's drifting off now.

His whole body feels like lead and he hardly notices it when Steve lifts him into his lap.

He leans toward the blazing warmth Steve provides. It heats his frozen bones. And though he's thought about it lots since waking, maybe going back to cryostasis really isn't what he wants. Maybe this is it. This is where he feels most comfortable.

He's missed Steve.


	6. VI Grinning like a loon until the song

Cenotaph

—

Remember me  
Duty called and I went to war  
Though I'd never fired a gun before  
I paid the price for your new day  
As all my dreams were blown away

Remember me  
We all stood true as whistles blew  
And faced the shell and stench of Hell  
Now battle's done, there is no sound  
Our bones decay beneath the ground  
We cannot see, or smell, or hear  
There is no death, or hope or fear

Remember me  
Once we, like you, would laugh and talk  
And run and walk and do the things that you all do  
But now we lie in rows so neat  
Beneath the soil, beneath your feet

Remember me  
In mud and gore and the blood of war  
We fought and fell and move no more  
Remember me, I am not dead  
I'm just a voice within your head

\- Harry Riley

—

 **VI. Grinning like a loon until the song ends.**

He pants, gasping for air. His lungs are filling with water, his blood is boiling. His neck feels like it's about to snap. There's something heavy on top of him, he can't move it. He cries out, the sensation of salty water filling his mouth. No sound comes out. He can't breathe. He can't breathe!

Bucky bolts upright.

He's hyperventilating, disorientated and confused, but then,

"Bucky?"

Steve's sleep-addled voice cuts through his panic. His hand on Bucky's arm in an instant. It pulls him back to earth, back to his current reality.

Steve counts. In one, two, three, four, five, six. Out one, two, three, four, five, six. Bucky times his breathing with Steve's counts and, eventually, the dots that blur his vision dissipate.

There is a long, drawn silence and while Steve watches him with furrowed eyebrows, Bucky wonders how Steve's hair can look like it had a fight with a tornado and lost.

He snorts.

"What?" Says Steve, whose mouth has dropped into an unhappy line.

"Your hair," he replies, reaching out to smooth it down before stopping midway. Is he allowed to touch Steve? That's unlikely. It's probably not within protocol. He did nearly kill Steve, with his stolen gun; his finger pulled the trigger.

He snatches his hand back and Steve's face, which looks both surprised and tentatively happy from Barnes' comment, falls again.

Oh. He… he's made Steve sad. But. Conflicting protocols are confusing, he doesn't know which ones to follow sometimes. He half wishes to apologise to Steve for making him drop his smile, but something tells him that, if he apologises for making Steve sad, he will somehow only make him sadder. So he finds something else to apologise for, it's not like there isn't a long list.

"I'm sorry I shot you." He says softly to the quiet between them. He listens, cringing as the words hang in the air. He didn't think this through. What if Steve doesn't forgive—

"Buck, you don't have to apologise. It was dumb of me to think you'd be unarmed."

Whilst Barnes keeps his face ridged, his brain laughs at the joke. Unarmed. He wiggles his left fingers with quiet amusement and they shine when the rays of the moon filtering through the blinds hit them. Steve misses the pun entirely.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you too." He continues, making his way through the list of things he has to get off his chest.

Steve puts a hand to his face and drags it over his features, his expression strained. Damn it. His words are making Steve distressed. That is clearly a move of distress.

"Bucky, stop apologising."

That's an order. Or, it sounds like one.

He shuts up.

"Can we…" Steve hesitates. Bucky's stomach sinks. "Look, can we talk about this in the morning?"

Stiffly, he manages to make his head go up and down once.

"Goodnight, Buck."

"Goodnight."

Steve lies down and rolls over, within two minutes, he's fast asleep. This is made apparent by the loud snores emanating from his mouth.

Bucky doesn't go back to sleep.

He gets out of bed.

He goes to the lounge. He sits. He pulls his knees up to his chest and buries his head into his knees. The fabric of the ugly pyjamas is really soft, he learns. This is why they were purchased. They're still ugly though.

He doesn't think he could sleep again tonight, not even if Steve ordered him to.

Steve might be angry at him. He remembers the phrase, "can we talk about this later". This is a code. Steve's version, "can we talk about this tomorrow" is just a variation of that code. It means something unpleasant will happen. Bad news, usually. He remembers this code being used by a blonde girl. She was tall, thin, big brown eyes and pouty lips covered in rose-pink lipstick. She'd broken up with him, he recalls, not that he really remembers what that entailed. But he remembers his stomach sinking and feeling pitiful for the next three days. He doesn't want to feel like that with Steve. He doesn't want to have to leave Steve like that girl left him. It will be more painful if it is Steve.

His throat seizes up of its own accord. His eyes start to water precariously until the dam breaks and hot tears alight down his face.

He hates this gut twisting anxiety.

Why did Steve have to say those words?

Fuck Steve. What a fucking asshole.

Bucky gets angry. Hell, he's furious.

He gets up, marches into the kitchen and starts throwing pots and pans out of drawers. He throws the salt canister onto Steve's couch and it goes everywhere. Next, the sugar. It falls over the TV and little bits and pieces scatter all the way over to the open bedroom door. He feels a little smug.

He's onto the coffee bean canister before Steve emerges from the bedroom looking startled and frazzled. Bucky throws the coffee at him in handfuls and, though Steve raises an arm to defend himself, some of the beans hit him in the chest.

"Bucky!" Steve shouts. "What are you doing! Stop!"

Barnes drops the tin and it crashes to the floor with a dull clank.

Steve's crossing the room.

Bucky backs up against the fridge.

Is he going to be punished? They're going hurt him.

He crouches. In his mind he can hear technicians. They are like buzzy bees, flitting from one place to the next. The screaming in his brain makes itself very known. It blocks out the sound coming from Steve's mouth. It's like something blew out his ear-drums and they're ringing in protest.

Bucky covers himself with his arms. Someone tugs at them.

Fuck. He shouldn't have done that.

No. He doesn't want to be punished. But. He was bad. He deserves it. He deserved all of it, all the punishment he was ever given. All the punishment he's going to get.

"—don't deserve punishment, Bucky."

That's Steve's voice, but Steve is wrong and he tells him so.

He's not supposed to argue with his handlers. If they say he is to be punished, he accepts it, but if they say he isn't, then he accepts that too. He never argues with them. Why is Steve different? He always argues with Steve. They argue about baseball, they argue about back-alley brawling, they argue about going out to dance.

Hands manage to yank away his arms and Steve pulls him close. He goes limp. He'll bend to Steve's will. Steve cradles him like he is something precious, like he is a cherished person, even if he knows that that's not what he is. Steve mutters into his hair, his breath minutely rustling it. Bucky can't hear his words, but he can feel the vibrations of Steve's chest against his face.

He threw coffee at Steve. Why does he keep trying to hurt Steve?

He sobs. The sound is repulsive, but Steve merely holds him tighter. Nasal mucus from his face smears all over Steve's nightshirt. Yet still, Steve doesn't pull away and the screaming in his brain starts to die away into more of a hum.

Why now? Why can't he keep it together now? He was doing fine before. He was traversing the country, he was doing fine! But now, suddenly, those flimsy walls he'd thought were sturdy, have crumpled. What he believed to be made out of brick was, in actuality, cardboard. This scares him more than anything else. He's weak. He's always been weak, he just never wanted to look too closely. He wanted to protect Steve, be his shoulder to lean on, but it's ended up the other way.

Steve leans back a little and puts Bucky's face between his hands.

"Will you come back to bed?" He asks.

Is it a question? An order?

He assents. Yes. He will return to the bedroom. This is what Steve wants, he will do anything Steve wants. He doesn't want to be thrown away like trash, even if he knows his time is expiring. His protocols are breaking down. If he's to be of any use, they need to reprogram him. Wipe him and add more code.

Steve eyes him dubiously.

"Are you going to sleep?"

Highly doubtful, but he says yes anyway.

Steve doesn't believe him.

"Really?" He questions, raising an eyebrow.

"No."

Steve sighs. A distressed look.

Bucky looks away. He's upset Steve again.

"That's okay," says Steve contrarily. "How about I make us hot chocolates instead? We can sit up and drink them together."

"Okay."

Steve hauls them both up and he sits Bucky at the counter-stool whilst he goes about making a hot chocolates, one for each.

The end result is delicious. He will have to learn how to make this like Steve did. Maybe he can ask Steve another time, perhaps when aforementioned person doesn't have snot and drool all over his shirt.

Steve leads them back to the bedroom and places Bucky's hot chocolate on the bedside table. Crawling into bed, he holds the sheets open for Bucky, who follows his example and hops in before picking up his warm drink.

The liquid warms his body from the inside out and Steve gives him little sidelong glances every now and then. When Bucky has the audacity, he catches his eye and the other gives him a small smile around the lip of his mug.

"Are you feeling any better?" Steve asks when Bucky finishes his drink.

He's not sure how to answer that. Tonight has been an emotional roller coaster. He honestly doesn't know how he feels.

Barnes shrugs.

"Look," says Steve. "I haven't been as transparent with you as I should have been."

Bucky stares.

"Natasha came to visit earlier, while you were asleep. She… said some things I think you ought to know…"

Bucky takes a deep breath and prepares to break the news to Steve.

"I– I heard. I was listening. I'm sorry."

Steve pauses a moment. "That's okay," he says eventually, ushering him under the covers. "I'm kind of relieved actually. I felt bad about keeping it from you I just… wasn't sure about the timing; I didn't know how to break it to you.

Bucky follows Steve's directions and lies curled on his side under the covers of the bed.

When Steve finishes his drink, he turns out his lamp and worms under the sheets too, facing Bucky.

Barnes can make out the shape of Steve's face from the moonlight, and he can see open eyes watching him in return.

"Are you tired?" Steve asks.

He thinks. Then. Yawns.

"Yes." He replies.

"Close your eyes." Steve says.

He complies.

"Imagine you're in a forest," Steve says.

But that's as much as Bucky hears. He's out like a light.

When Barnes next opens his eyes, it's morning, and Steve isn't next to him.

His voice does a weird thing halfway between a squeak and a scream as he look wildly around the room.

Shit.

He's lost him. He's lost Steve, even though he was right. there. He'd better not have gotten himself into any trouble, if he has, Bucky's gonna kill him.

No. That's not right. He wouldn't… that's an… expression? Yes. That's an old memory. It's overlaying a new memory. Oh. It doesn't matter. Steve's still missing.

Barnes stumbles out of bed, his feet tangling in the sheets as he makes an ungraceful exit.

It's only when he hits the doorframe that his enhanced hearing zones in on Steve's voice.

"… don't know what to do…"

A pause as the other person speaks.

"Yes, I know but—"

Bucky notices that the floor has been cleaned. There are no coffee beans, nor sugar or salt.

"I am not! Don't you tell me—fine. I'll see you then. Alright. Yes, I'll bring him. Fine. Bye."

Steve's words are tense and clipped. Once he's hung up, Bucky sees the move of distress where Steve rubs the back of his neck and releases a long sigh.

He decides to make his presence known.

"Steve." He says, stepping into the living room. His foot finds a grain of salt that escaped the clean.

"Bucky!" Steve jerks, nearly dropping his phone. "You're awake. I didn't wake you, did I? You were sound asleep when I got up to brew some coffee… I didn't want to wake— You looked like you needed some rest."

The words fall out of Steve's mouth as if he's liaised each one. The speed of his sentences are almost alarming.

Bucky shakes his head.

"No. Didn't wake me. You cleaned up the coffee?"

Steve nods, moving around the counter in the kitchen to wear the coffee machine sits.

"Yeah," he says. "You want a mug? I promise it's not the stuff I swept up off the floor. This bag of beans was in the fridge, but we're out of salt and white sugar now. Still have some raw sugar left though, so if you want any…"

Bucky's brain suddenly does something really weird. To make matters worse, it ropes his vocal chords into its scheme too.

"You know I don't take sugar my coffee, Stevie."

Steve looks about as shocked as Bucky feels. He touches his lips in horror.

That wasn't his accent. No. It was. Old accent, origin: Brooklyn. Identified as: first accent. That was his voice. His original voice. That was how he used to speak. He cringes. It sounds so fucking weird.

On the other hand, Steve beams. His face lights up the room as if he's morphed into the actual, literal sun.

"You're right Buck," he smiles, placing Bucky's mug under the drip. "I remember. Do you want some breakfast too?"

Barnes blinks and let's his legs guide him to the same stool Steve has previously urged him to.

Is this another meal? Excellent. Steve's cooking, although seemingly simple, is a lot better than S.H.I.E.L.D.'s, and he's not entirely sure what he ate whilst hitchhiking from motel to motel. He doesn't remember. If it's not critical mission intel, he blocks it out, mostly. Maybe a protein bar from one of the truckies? He definitely ate some plums.

"I'll take that face as a yes to breakfast," Steve says lightly when he doesn't answer. Oops. "Also," Steve continues, more somber this time. "Natasha has demanded to see us at nine, so we're going to head down to the common area a bit later."

Oh. He was on the phone to the red-head. Explains the clipped tone and the expressions of distress. Anyone would be distressed to speak to her.

"Why?" He asks.

Steve stops for a moment, considers. "Uh, to speak to me about… something. But honestly? I think she just wants to see you. Last time, she had a gun pointed to the back of your head."

A valid point, but he doesn't begrudge her for that. Other things. Yes. But not for pointing a gun at him. Had he been in her position, he would've done the same.

"Maybe she wants to apologise." Steve shrugs.

Bucky gives Steve a flat, disbelieving stare. Has Steve even met the red-head? That lady would rather crack a full-on smile than apologise. And she's already apologised to him once, back at S.H.I.E.L.D. when she learned he'd had a seizure. He's not so stupid to think he'll get another one.

Steve hands him a hot mug of coffee and he sips it with a faint unease. He's not looking forward to this meeting with Redhead.

Steve stars pouring pancake mixture into the pan on the stove and Barnes watches intently.

"It's not from scratch or anything," says Steve sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck to tell the world that he's embarrassed he didn't put in all the work from the start. "It's a pre-mixed batter I bought from the store."

Bucky doesn't mind. He likes watching Steve pour perfectly circular pancakes and he likes watching the air bubbles ruin that perfection.

When one is finished, Steve sticks it in the oven to keep it warm whilst he makes another. In the end there is a total of six, three for Steve, three for him. He serves up Bucky's with maple syrup and a whole punnet of raspberries, and he serves his own with a punnet of blackberries and what appears to be half a ton of jam and cream. Steve steals a raspberry off his plate. He takes two blackberries as penance. And some cream.

They talk amicably and aimlessly for a while—well, Steve does and occasionally Barnes puts in his two words worth.

It feels highly irregular to talk to someone in such a relaxed way, but Steve doesn't bring up any unpleasantness to spoil their conversation, so he won't either. He wonders if Steve will let him apologise for throwing all his food around the apartment. Steve doesn't like him apologising, but he keeps doing bad stuff and if Steve isn't going to punish him for this, the least he could do would be to let him say sorry.

After the breakfast dishes are clear, Steve leads Bucky back to the bedroom and throws some clothes in his face.

"Put those on." He says, rifling through more drawers.

Bucky looks at them.

They are uglier than the pyjamas he is currently wearing. But he obeys Steve's directions nonetheless.

He buttons the shirt all the way up, tucks it into his pants and makes sure to hoist the belt halfway to his stomach.

"There," says Steve, inspecting him. "Don't you look handsome."

Bucky would disagree.

Steve leads them out the apartment and into an elevator. Once the doors close, Steve says, "Common room, please JARVIS."

And Bucky drops into a defensive crouch when he hears the elevator reply,

"Certainly, Sir."

Steve laughs at him a little. What an asshole. But he helps Bucky back to his feet.

"The elevator talks, Steve." He hisses.

"Actually," Steve replies. "JARVIS is throughout the whole building, except I made Tony turn him off in our apartment. I figure it's a violation of your privacy, Buck."

Steve has proved that he does in fact own one or two brain cells. The probability of him being okay with being watched unknowingly is minus one-thousand percent. God knows how many creeps watched him sleep in cryostasis over the years, he doesn't need to add any more to the pile.

The elevator stops, and the doors open to reveal a huge room, about the size of their entire apartment. It's strikingly opulent, which makes him feel uncomfortable in that weird way that tingles in the back of his brain. Steve steps out and Bucky follows cautiously behind, his eyes immediately seeking out the vivacity of her hair colour.

She's on the couch. But she's not alone in the room.

"Ah," shouts a loud man, wrapped in a metal suit that frighteningly reminds him of the suits at S.H.I.E.L.D. "Capsize and Cyborg have arrived, let the party commence!"

Bucky shrinks behind Steve. Is that guy here to knock him out? Does he have needle? Are they going to hold him down while the needle is jammed into the back of his neck, like last time?

"Is the suit really necessary, Tony?" Steve barks.

Barnes watches the red-head move from her place of the couch. He gives her a withering glare, which possibly loses its effectiveness from his heart going a mile a minute.

"Bucky," Steve addresses him awkwardly, trying to turn to find him, but also keeping himself between Barnes and Loud Man. "It's okay, that's just Tony."

"Take the suit off Stark," yells Redhead.

Loud Man huffs, but does as he is ordered.

The red-head then turns to Steve, examining him closely, scrutinising him with narrowed eyes.

"You look terrible." She says bluntly. She looks like she wants to say something else, but clicks her tongue instead and her eyes wander over Barnes's form before flicking back.

Steve huffs out a slightly uncomfortable laugh and rubs the back of his neck, giving Bucky half a glance over his shoulder.

"It was… kind of a rough night for us." Is his way of reply.

"How about you, Barnes?" She asks, folding her arms across her chest after brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

"Functioning operational." He reports, standing rigidly. He hesitates a little before adding, "Steve gave me food which consisted of flour, baking powder, salt, sugar, milk, egg and butter mixed into a batter and cooked over a hot stove. Also, maple syrup and fresh raspberries were additional extras. It was… delicious."

He almost thinks he sees her lips twitch upwards at that, but she schools herself before anyone else notices.

"That's good to hear Barnes."

Steve just gives him a sidelong look, riddled with confusion. Steve doesn't know he read the ingredients off the back of the pancake mixture when he wasn't looking.

The three of them sit on the lounge and Bucky glances around the room, warily observing the other people around them.

Loud Man has taken up a pool cue at the billiards table and appears to be scrutinising the game intensely, his fingers hovering around his chin in a thoughtful manner. The man playing against him seems familiar and Barnes wonders for a moment if he has fought this man. He searches through his memory, but he hardly retains any data about whom was once a target. After all, he doesn't need to remember them if they're dead, and it was never his place to decide who lived or died. He simply followed orders.

Loud Man exclaims with dismay when his opponent clears all remaining balls in the next move.

A third man, sitting quietly, wearing glasses, is residing in the open plan kitchen; a similar style kitchen to the one in Steve's apartment, which is in the same room as the living room. The glasses man has a dark energy about him that Barnes does not wish to analyse, but he sips his coffee calmly and taps away at a flat screened device whilst a shiver runs up and down Bucky's spine.

A woman with dark hair tied back into a ponytail appears only briefly to use the coffee machine and then she wanders around the corner and does not reappear.

"Where's everybody today?" Steve asks as the red-head reclines in her seat and picks up her mug from the coffee table in front of her.

Bucky's eye twitches.

There are more of them? How many? What are they're capabilities? What defensive measures might be necessary?

"The downtown parade," she replies. "You know, the one Tony organised for a distraction and then found out we didn't need."

Comprehension dawns across Steve's face.

"Oh, yeah."

Barnes hasn't a clue what they're talking about.

"Basically, they took the day off. Well, you know, except Banner and Barton. Neither of them are so hot in crowds, you know." She glances at the glasses guy.

"Yeah," chuckles Steve softly. "But I'm surprised Tony didn't go. You know, to ride on the biggest float there or something."

"It's Tony. If he wanted, he could throw a parade every day of the year. Apparently this one wasn't on a grand enough scale for him."

"I heard that Romanoff!" Loud Man shouts from across the room. "And for your information, I was planning to make an appearance! They made an Iron Man float!"

The whole room watches him huff over to the shell of the metal suit—which closes around him—and walk out onto the balcony. Barnes watches with mild shock as flames come out of the man's hands and feet and he starts to take off like a miniature airplane. Redhead and Steve shake their head simultaneously.

"I hope he doesn't take that off accidentally. He was wearing those disgusting green tracksuit pants that I _know_ Pepper hates." Says the redhead, taking another sip.

"So immature." Says Steve at the same time.

Bucky is bemused by Loud Man Tony. Also, he takes offence to Romanoff-Redhead's words. Those tracksuit pants looked ridiculously comfortable. If he was Loud Man Tony, he'd probably never get out of them.

"So," announces Redhead, a few moments later. "The H.Y.D.R.A. operative. Like I said earlier over the phone, he wasn't working alone."

Steve leans forward on the couch.

"What have you found?" Steve presses, frowning.

She shakes her head.

"Not all that much. Hill and I did a scout last night around some of the old subway tunnels. An informant of hers gave us a tip. Barton did a solo mission of the same scope. We didn't find much, but we know for certain that they're down there. We found discarded syringes—and not full of the usual illegal stuff either, that's how we know it's H.Y.D.R.A. I asked Banner to test the substances when I got back this morning. He says he's never seen anything like it. Whatever they're working on, it's designed to be super fast acting and extremely potent. Banner says the discarded syringes appear to just be prototypes, because in each case, the formula appeared to have been tweaked a little each time."

Bucky sees Steve's hands ball into fists on his knees.

"That's all I know at this point Steve. If we find anything else, I'll be sure to let you know. Hill's in her office right now talking to some of her connections. Hopefully we can find something more to go on, but I'll do another recon of the subway tunnels tomorrow, see if I can pick up anything else."

"I think…" says Steve, eyes pointedly fixed to his knee caps. "There's a connection we can infer here."

Romanoff quirks her eyebrow.

"Whatever they're making down there, they wanted it to do as much damage as possible, yes?" Steve continues.

"Well, yeah, I guess. Your point?" She says.

"Who do we know that would've been an easy target?"

Redhead's eyes flicker over to Bucky.

"You think they meant to test it on him? On Barnes?" She nods her head in his direction.

"Seems logical to me."

She furrows her brow in thought.

"It's certainly H.Y.D.R.A.'s style, I suppose. But, we've foiled that. Barnes is here, with us now."

"I guess, but that doesn't make me feel much better about this whole situation. I mean, what does this new drug they're making even do?"

This time it's Romanoff who apparently has an idea. She jerks forward.

"You don't think… they were already testing it on him, do you?"

Steve suddenly goes very quiet and very stiff as she continues, his breath hardly making a sound.

"Think about it, if they were already testing their prototypes on him, they could wipe Barnes's knowledge by injecting him with the drug they left behind, the one that causes brain damage. What if they left that evidence behind on purpose after they learned of Barnes's escape? It would certainly throw us off their real goal."

Steve is silent, but that is okay, because Bucky decides to say something to Redhead.

"I do not know if that is what they were doing, but H.Y.D.R.A. does not tolerate mistakes. H.Y.D.R.A. does not leave evidence lying around, they are too efficient for that, they are like a sharp blade. Swift, precise, deadly."

Bucky thinks that Steve and Redhead-Romanoff view H.Y.D.R.A. as stupid, but it is they who would be stupid to assume. H.Y.D.R.A. is intelligent and deadly. Barnes knows not to underestimate his previous masters. They could've broken him if they'd wanted to, but Zola had chosen to make a weapon out of him rather than just use him as a test subject—though he'd certainly been used for that purpose too, and not just by Zola.

"Bucky's right, we've been underestimating them this whole time and it's cost us," Steve says, echoing Barnes thoughts. "We need to take them on as if they are S.H.I.E.L.D."

Romanoff nods once and moves into a standing position. "Barton and I will look again tonight. We'll find them."

"No," says Steve, reaching for her arm. "Get some rest Natasha, you look like you need it. In the meantime, I'll mark up a plan. We'll search the tunnels systematically, and if we can't find them the good old fashioned way, we'll smoke 'em out."

She flickers a smile of relief his way before turning on her heel.

"Can't argue against The Star Spangled Man with a Plan." She tosses over her shoulder, striding toward the lift and boarding it. "I look forward to the second half of that plan."

From the look on her face, Bucky's ninety-nine percent sure she really means that.

When they return to their own apartment, Steve heads straight for the lounge and computer and Bucky flicks on the radio in the kitchen, fiddling around with the dial until he finds a station with half decent music, which turns out to be swing.

The beat of the drums and trumpets pounding out their double-time tempo brings a smile to his face.

If he doesn't think too hard, he can see figures dancing across his vision. A memory? A washed out memory, broken and disjointed after being yanked away from him time and again. It doesn't stop his enjoyment as he slides his way across the living room in just his socks.

After a while, he notices Steve watching him from a reclined position on the couch and his brain does that weird thing again that freaks both him and Steve out. He tries to stop it before the words reach his lips, but his mouth has already found the familiar position of the words and the accent juts out like a sore thumb, especially contrasting to the feel of his usual Russian underlay.

"Care to dance with me, Stevie?"

Steve's eyes visibly pop out of his skull for a second, but then he bursts into laughter.

"Come on Buck, you know I can't dance."

Barnes cringes internally at the sound of his own voice, but it's become unexpectedly apparent that Steve doesn't find his accent as cringeworthy as he. Actually, Steve seems to like it. Perhaps it's not such a bad thing to let it slip every once in a while, especially if it makes Steve's face light up and his throat laugh like that.

"I'll teach you!" He says, the accent sticking temporarily.

"You know you've tried before…"

But Steve ends up in his arms anyway, making awkward turns and grinning like a loon until the song ends.


	7. VII What soldier fights between battles

Cenotaph

—

 _We're here  
_ _because  
_ _We're here  
_ _because  
_ _We're here  
_ _because we're here._

― Soldier's Song

—

 **VII. What soldier fights between battles if not all who have fought?**

"You're sulking," says Steve, hands on his hips, a quirked eyebrow for emphasis, like a scolding parent.

Who is he anyway, acting all high and mighty?

"I'm not." Bucky replies, face smushed into the pillow. He feels like a five year old throwing a tantrum, but he doesn't care.

"You are, and I stand by what I've said, you're not coming." Steve continues sternly.

Barnes lifts his head.

"Fuck you."

And smashes it back into the pillow.

He's not sure how many times he's wanted to say that in the past, probably a lot and probably to his previous handlers, but it feels good to say it, especially to Steve. He doesn't know why, but it feels oddly liberating. Until he hears the bark of his name, anyway, which brings the image of a whip to the front of his mind, the hairs on his back shivering with nervous anticipation.

"Bucky!" Steve chastises. "We don't know what they injected you with! What if there are side effects? You're staying here, where I know if there's an emergency, there'll be someone looking after you."

Bucky flips him off, but his hand trembles out in the open space between them. Steve doesn't notice, he hopes, anyway. Of course Steve would feel better if he was safe, but safe is just another word for locked up. Doesn't Steve know that already? What he needs is to be out in the field, pummelling H.Y.D.R.A. into the ground with venomous vengence.

He hears Steve exclaim again with a huffy scowl before storming out of the bedroom.

Bucky knows he will drag himself out of the bedroom in about half an hour to make up with Steve, or at least have a more adult conversation with. He can't stand having Steve mad at him for too long, but he's pretty damn furious that he won't even consider his coming along for the mission with Romanoff.

Steve has one, singular valid point, they don't know what H.Y.D.R.A. injected him with or what the drug was designed to do. But it wasn't the finished product, Romanoff's said so; her scout missions firmly determining this, and Dr. Banner's round the clock studying of the substances, trying to determine their supposedly sinister purpose.

It can't have had too many lingering effects, he thinks, he feels normal. Well, as normal as he ever feels. Steve will find any one symptom and hone in on that as a reason for him not to come along though. He thinks the Redhead is in agreement with Steve, which ticks him off even more. The two of them in league with each other pisses him off. She's still on his bucket list of people he'd like to exanguinate, slowly, but she's Steve's ally and an enemy of H.Y.D.R.A. and the old saying goes, 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend'. He may have to tolerate her existence for a while longer.

The problem really is that Steve is so damn stubborn. If he thinks about it, he reckons S.H.I.E.L.D. is pretty lucky that the Soviets brainwashed him and not Steve. They would have had a hell of a lot harder time deprogramming Steve with his heels in the dirt attitude.

With a reluctant sigh, he heaves himself off the bed and stands, staring at the open doorway with his bottom lip between his teeth. It takes more effort than he really has to move one foot forward after the other, and he shuffles into the kitchen with Steve's sheep socks on.

He notes right away that Steve is on the couch, an open book resting between his palm and forefinger as his eyes skim over the words. It's easy to tell that Steve isn't really reading the novel, he's not a subtle as he thinks, and it looks more like he's having a harder time trying not to glare at Barnes.

Bucky, too cowardly to approach, goes to the kitchen instead and searches through the pantry and fridge without really looking. It takes him a while to close the freezer door and turn to face the music.

Steve has his lips into a thin, pressed line and his eyes are slightly narrowed. Bucky observes this quietly as he slowly works his way to the other couch, building his reserve of courage as he does so.

Neither of them says anything. A reticent silence falls in between the two of them. Bucky finds himself biting the inside of his bottom lip, the silence slowly wearing his resolve down.

"So…" Steve says, his voice holding a husky quality, which he clears with a cough.

Bucky has to consciously control himself from grinding his jaw. He doesn't think he should have to be sorry for his opinion. Steve wants him to be safe, but can't Steve see things from his point of view?

"I'm not going to apologise, Steve." He says evenly. "I want to go on that mission. I need to go on that mission." He sounds clear-headed and sane. Excellent. A new level of achievement. It doesn't last though, not through Steve's next sentence.

"You don't need to do anything that might jeopardise your mental health, Bucky," Steve says.

"Have you even stopped to consider that this might just be the best thing for me?" Bucky shouts, throwing his hands up in the air. He's already on short terms with his patience right now, why can't Steve just let him come on the fucking mission!

"Yes!" Steve exclaims back at him. "And it isn't! I know you think this will make you feel better, Buck, but it won't! Recovery isn't going back into the field and just goddamn hoping for the best. You need time to process, and from the way you were last night, I think you know I'm right."

Bucky's open jaw snaps shut and he averts his eyes to the floor. If he wasn't afraid of the repercussions, he'd probably tackle Steve to the ground and sock him in the face. As it is, all his mind can process when it thinks about such disobedience is the chair― if this were any handler other than Steve, he'd have had his brain fried for simply thinking out of line.

The pause is a lasting one, but in the time it takes for Bucky to regain control of his temper, Steve is speaking again.

"Buck," he says, gentler this time, a detectable trace sympathy there. "I'm not saying this because I don't think you can take on H.Y.D.R.A. I'm saying this because I worry about what will happen if you do. You haven't been on a mission since you left them and I don't want to lose _you_ again. I don't want you to lose yourself again."

Steve takes a shuddered inhalation and casts his eyes to his fists, straightening his fingers as he speaks. His voice drops to a quiet hum that threatens to break into a whisper.

"I can't lose you again, Buck, I can't."

Barnes stays silent. There's a lingering note of something in Steve's voice that he can't place. It's not desperation, but it's still halfway to pleading. He knows if he presses the issue, Steve will only end up upset, and Bucky would rather chop his remaining flesh hand off than be the reason for Steve's aversion again. Emotions are complicated, he's worked that much out, Steve's, even more so. As Soldat, he had no use for emotions, he had them forcefully removed from his person by the people that controlled him, but with Steve as his _only_ reason for existence now, life has become more complicated. Steve hasn't taken his feelings away but rather, shoved them back in with unintended brutality. This is one minefield he has no idea how to navigate. And it kind of frightens him.

Still, Barnes wants to fight. He wants _some_ revenge, but it's more than that. Somehow, he wants something more. An explanation perhaps? Why him? Why not someone they wouldn't have had to brainwash to do their bidding. Why not someone else? He can't ask Armin Zola of course, he died and carried the answer to Bucky's question with him to the grave. Pierce? He wouldn't have even known the answer. What Zola envisioned as his masterpiece at the beginning, Pierce simply saw as a mindless weapon at the end. And, was he wrong? Isn't that what he is? What he always has been? Always following someone else's orders into battle; he thinks Steve's the suicidal lemming but, geez, maybe that label needs to be reassigned. The fight is like a drug for him. He needs it, and maybe Steve knows that too, and that's why he wants Barnes out.

He stands and leaves the room without a word, knowing if he says anything, he might just have to make short work of his right hand. He can feel Steve's eyes follow the back of his head the whole way out. Talking with Steve has just made him angry again, but he isn't going to continue arguing. Some part of him, perhaps the Soldat itself, is terrified when he states and holds an opposite opinion. Soldat remembers how to hold his tongue, how to prevent them from knowing he needs mental reduction. Bucky's not so smart and Soldat is scared of the chair, even now that Steve is their handler. Soldat doesn't trust Steve like Bucky implicitly does, but then again, Soldat never had a reason to trust anybody.

He shuts the bedroom door and slides down to the floor, covering his face with his arms and curling inwards, bringing his knees to his chest. Barnes sits for so long, the humming in his mind becomes a painful screeching that gives him a headache. Is his brain punishing him for fighting with Steve? He deserves it. He buries his head further into his knees.

A knock, a tap of twice, jolts him out of his mindless thinking and deafening mental noises.

"Buck?" He hears through the door. "Can I come in?"

Barnes doesn't reply, but he scoots away from the entrance. His head hurts, his teeth hurt from where he's been clenching his jaw, his gums hurt, his cheek hurts from where he's been biting a hole through it. Shit, how long has he been sitting here? His headache pounds ruthlessly and without a touch of remorse. He's been sitting here a while then…

The handle of the door rattles as it turns, and the hinges squeak a little as it opens.

Steve stands there for a moment, hands loose by his sides, expression somewhat concerning. He looks kind of… sad. Bucky knows he's the one who put that sorrowful face there, and now he's ruined everything. He left the lounge so he wouldn't make Steve sad, but Steve'ssad anyway, so nothing he did even made a lick of difference. He's fucking useless, so utterly hopeless.

"I'm about to start making dinner," Steve says, hand reaching for the back of his neck as he averts his eyes in discomfort. "Are you hungry?"

Bucky still doesn't say anything. Maybe he can pretend he's forgotten how to speak English and then he won't have to speak to Steve at all.

It's a good idea, but he doesn't, it might be another exploding landmine if he did. He just shrugs and says, "sure", in the most bland tone he can find. It's not too hard to achieve blank and quiet when that's been his default for nearly as far back as he can remember, but it's better not to go sifting through those memories in case he comes across something that makes him uneasy and possibly queasy.

Steve helps him to his feet and looks him over subtly as he does. He searches Bucky's face for something, but when Bucky stares him down, he diverts his eyes to the open bedroom door and leads them both to the kitchen.

"What are you hungry for?" Asks Steve, pulling down a couple of recipe books as Barnes takes up position in his usual spot.

Bucky shrugs again.

The air is tense between them.

Steve flips through a few pages in each cookbook, not really seeing as he reads. Bucky can tell, because Steve keeps glancing at him through his eyelashes.

"This looks good," Steve says eventually, stopping on a random page and dog-earring the corner. It's a pasta dish of some description.

He turns around to pull pots and pans out of the drawers.

Bucky reads the list of ingredients upside down before glancing at the back of Steve's head with skepticism. Where is Steve going to find these ingredients? First off, there's not even any salt in the apartment.

"Steve?"

Steve drops all the pots he's holding on himself.

Bucky frowns.

"I'm fine!" Steve says quickly, picking the fallen pots up off the floor and answering Barnes' unspoken question. It would be comical if not for the fact that it is more concerning than funny. "What is it, Buck?"

Barnes feels bad now. He probably shouldn't point out to Steve that they don't have half these ingredients, he doesn't want to see Steve any more unhappy because of him.

Does Steve feel sad about their argument? Maybe.

"It's nothing."

Steve's replaced most of the pots now. He turns back and gives Bucky a long stare.

"You sure? Is there something on you mind?" Steve returns to the other side of the island counter.

Oh. He's trying to make up for earlier. Bucky can't help but feel even worse. He deserves twenty lashes for making Steve look like _that_ _―_ brows together, mouth down turned at the corners, blue eyes filled with so much concern that Bucky could get lost in them. He knows Steve won't give him a whipping, but he deserves it nonetheless.

"Well, we… don't have any salt." He finally manages to point out.

"Oh." Says Steve, face falling further.

There's quiet in the apartment and Bucky can hear the loud car horns and street sounds from below.

"Is take-away okay?" Asks Steve tiredly, pulling out three menus from a cupboard.

There's a pizza menu, a menu proclaiming itself to be Japanese cuisine, and a pasta menu.

Bucky hasn't ever ordered pasta before and he's never even tried Japanese food, so he chooses the tried and true.

"The 'Everything Pizza' looks good." He declares soberly, watching Steve's reaction.

Steve gets JARVIS to order three King-sized Everything Pizza's from "Babbino's Pizza Bar" and, that done, promptly removes himself from the kitchen and sits on the couch, turning on the television.

Bucky joins him, but sits out of arms reach. He doesn't know if Steve really wants his company right now, all he does is cause him trouble, make him upset. He shouldn't have gotten mad at Steve earlier. It's not his place. He's not supposed to talk back to those who give the orders, he's not supposed to! But it's Steve. Why can't his mind consolidate these two things? Why is Steve different from his other handlers? Is he even Bucky's handler? He was Bucky's friend once, but that title doesn't seem familiar and he doesn't know what a 'friend' does. He knows what a soldier does, he knows how to follow orders and behave, but he doesn't know how to be a friend; how to be _Steve's_ friend. Should he even try?

Steve drags a weary hand over his face and Barnes shifts uncomfortably on his side of the couch.

He's stuck between a rock and a hard place. He should apologise, but if he does he'll only make Steve sad again. The guilt eats at him.

Steve breaks the awkward background noise of the television by declaring his need for a shower.

He gets up and leaves for the bathroom, deliberately avoiding Barnes' eyes on his way out.

Bucky feels his heart race and his gut clench so tightly with anxiety that it makes him feel sick. Steve probably hates him.

God, Bucky is sorry for getting angry, hiding away in the bedroom all afternoon. If he hadn't argued with Steve, he wouldn't be being avoided right now. Maybe they'd even be dancing, like they did earlier that morning after returning from the common area, or perhaps just talking amicably, laughing at each other.

Fuck, he feels awful. He wishes Steve would just get angry with him, slap him, kick him. It made his other handlers feel better, made them feel their rightful control over him. It stands to reason Steve would feel better too. He doesn't like being beaten, but he'll take it from Steve and he'll fucking enjoy it because he doesn't want Steve to avoid him. He doesn't want to be hated. Steve's the only one he has left. He's got nothing else, not Pierce or Rumlow, not H.Y.D.R.A. or S.H.I.E.L.D. He's just got Steve and if he hasn't got Steve then, well, wouldn't it be a kinder mercy to put him out of his misery? A bullet to the head or a knife to the back of his skull would suffice.

He curls in on himself and waits patiently until Steve returns from the shower.

When Steve returns, Bucky isn't entirely sure how much time has passed. Steve looks fresher, smells like lavender shampoo. His hair is wet; Bucky has the urge to dry it and tell Steve he'll catch a cold and wind up sick again if he doesn't look after himself. It feels like a rusty protocol, but he's not sure it's correct in this instance.

Bucky doesn't say a word. He's not sure what to say or even if anything he says will help, it probably won't. He was designed for destruction not to keep shit together. He _wishes_ he could keep things together. Himself included.

Steve sits himself down on the couch, his towel hanging around his shoulders. For a moment, Bucky can tell Steve is hesitating to turn his head towards the other end of the lounge, but in the end, he does anyway, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"Bucky," he starts with a frown. "You alright?"

Wow. He really must've worked himself into a state.

"Yes." He says, smoothing out his expression into something he's sure belonged to the soldier.

Steve doesn't look like he believes him, but thankfully, the pizza chooses that moment to arrive. Steve jolts from the doorbell and drops his towel on the floor, hurrying to answer the door, and in a few moments, he's returning with three stacked pizza boxes in hand. He sets them down on the coffee table, just in front of Barnes.

Steve opens the lid of the first box and gestures for him to choose a slice, Barnes chooses the nearest one without deliberation. Steve takes the piece beside it and returns to the couch, snatching up the remote on his way through.

"Anything you want to watch on TV?" Steve asks, making idle, one-sided conversation. "Maybe a movie, though I'll admit, I don't own too many."

Bucky just shrugs. What is the appropriate response?

"Are you tired?" Steve questions, looking at him with that frown on his features again.

It's a good excuse. He'll take it.

"A little," He says. "Sorry."

Steve's face does a weird thing and it takes Bucky a moment to realise that Steve is holding back the words, 'you don't have to apologise.'

"You can go to bed if you want," Steve tells him. "Once I'm finished I'll go too."

Bucky nods, finishing up his single slice of pizza. His stomach is in knots and he isn't hungry at all.

He abandons Steve on the couch and tears off all his clothes as soon as he closes the bedroom door. He doesn't bother searching for pyjamas, he just climbs into bed naked and dives under the covers.

Bucky lies there for a while, he simply thinks, anxiety crawling up and down his spine. He doesn't know when Steve comes to bed, he thinks he falls asleep before this happens. The anxiety induced dreams are like a fog of horror he can't escape. There are blurry images and vivid ones too.

His heart nearly leaps out of his chest when he wakes, screaming.

The video reel in his mind starts to become less realistic as he takes in his surroundings.

God, he'll never forget it. the sight of Steve in the chair. No, no, no, no. Not Steve. Take him. But please, don't take Steve! He doesn't deserve this, he doesn't deserve it. Barnes will forget his name, they can take his name and his brain and body, just don't let them hurt Steve.

He starts to cry.

Why did he not protect Steve? He should have been protecting him. Bucky deserves worse than death. He hopes they'll take his life, but they've never been merciful before. He wants death more than a desert wants water.

He shakes from the heaving gasps he inhales through his sobs and then feels arms wrap around him as Steve holds him close, strokes his hair.

"I'm sorry!" He cries and cries and cries. "I'm sorry, Steve, I'm sorry!"

"It's fine, Bucky," comes the reply. "You're fine. Buck, it was just a dream, it was just a nightmare, okay?"

But it's not fine. And Bucky knows it; he doesn't want Steve to hate him, he couldn't save Steve, he couldn't do anything! He can't do anything right! So he continues to apologise as Steve hushes him and runs his fingers through Barnes' tangles.

"I promise I'll listen, I promise I'll behave!" He shouts hysterically, clawing at Steve's nightshirt. "I'm sorry, Steve! They can have me, I won't fight, I swear!"

Bucky feels a tear drop land on his hand. He glances up. Steve's crying now too.

He pushes himself away from Steve, edges to the other end of the bed where he can't hurt anybody but himself. He made him cry! Why can't he protect Steve? Fucking hell, he can't even keep Steve safe from himself!

"Bucky," says Steve through his own haze of tears, a hand reaching out. "What are you doing, please come back to bed."

Steve's voice is filled with so much desperation, but Bucky doesn't get it. Why does Steve even have him around? Why doesn't he just discard him already? It's not like Steve needs a broken, ex-soviet, brainwashed assassin. Honestly, he thinks Steve would be happier if he were dead or frozen; his life would be less stressful at least. Bucky is a burden, and he knows it.

"I don't want them to hurt you," he replies, kneeling on the floor. He means it. He really means it like he's never meant anything else in his life. His voice cracks and drops into a whisper.

"Steve, I don't deserve this. I don't deserve you. I shouldn't be here, I'm not supposed to be. I should be wiped. I should be reprogrammed. If I'm reprogrammed, then I can be of use to you, then I can join you and Romanoff on this mission." His words are sounding violently hysterical now, he's so dementedly dolorous. "You can't use me, Steve, and the way I am now, I'm just a dead-weight. I'm malfunctioning! Please, I want to be reprogrammed. I want to be useful again."

Steve seems to freeze. He stops, blue eyes wide open with shock. A tear falls off his eyelash and drops straight to the bedsheets.

"Bucky," he says evenly, his voice too calm, too steady to be real. "I need you to come here and listen to me really carefully."

Barnes does as he is ordered. That's all he can do, it's all he's good for. He climbs back under the sheets that Steve holds open for him and listens and waits patiently as Steve wraps Bucky up in his arms and kisses his forehead. Steve is trembling like a leaf. Barnes is scared Steve might fall apart, his whole body his shaking. Has he frightened Steve? Is he what Steve is afraid of?

Maybe afraid _for_? A small voice in his head suggests. He ignores the small voice. It is dumb and doesn't know what it's talking about.

"Buck," says Steve. He's holding Barnes like he did yesterday night, tucked up against him. "I'm not going to erase your memories and I'm not going to let anyone else do that either. I'm not going to hurt you or use you, I won't let you hurt yourself. I know this is hard for you, Buck. I do. But I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to be here, always. You can yell at me, scream, hit me, hurt me, hate me or otherwise and I still won't leave you or let anyone harm you. I really mean it. 'Till the end of the line, remember?"

Bucky doesn't have the mental energy to tell Steve that, yes, he remembers. He just clutches at the nightshirt, gripping it even tighter.

Steve kisses his hair this time, tucks Bucky under his chin and rocks them both backwards and forwards slowly. Barnes can feel wet droplets from Steve's cheeks landing on his scalp.

"I ain't letting anyone hurt you James Buchanan Barnes, I swear…" Says Steve in a hushed whisper.

It's funny, really, that this is the moment Bucky realises he isn't the only one with rusty protocols. Programs in his mind that connect to lost habits and duties. Steve has them too and, weirdly, that makes him feel a little bit better.


	8. VIII Oh! Shame, of the guileless cuckoo

Cenotaph

 _Thy soul shall find itself alone_  
 _'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone -_  
 _Not one, of all the crowd, to pry_  
 _Into thine hour of secrecy:_  
 _Be silent in that solitude_  
 _Which is not loneliness - for then_  
 _The spirits of the dead who stood_  
 _In life before thee are again_  
 _In death around thee - and their will_  
 _Shall then overshadow thee: be still._

\- Edgar Allan Poe

 ** **VIII. Oh! Shame, of the guileless cuckoo.****

Steve doesn't know Bucky's in the broom cupboard.

It would probably be comical, he thinks, if he wasn't quite so serious. He doesn't want to see Steve right now. His shame was witnessed last night, his breaking apart. There are pieces of himself still floating around in his head, trying to find their place like a peg to its hole. He knows Steve isn't judging him for it, he never would, but Bucky feels ashamed nonetheless. He's proven that Steve was right all along—he isn't fit to go on a mission. He feels like nothing. Something unworthy of all the attention Steve lavished on him. So, he hides. A tiny part of him hoping Steve forgets about him and goes on with his life.

He lets Steve search through the room unavailingly; he's comfortable amongst the table wipes and cleaning products and it's relatively quiet when Steve isn't walking past, calling his name. He knows Steve isn't worried about him leaving the house because, as Bucky discovered earlier, the door to the apartment won't open for him, only for Steve it would seem. Trapped in another cell. A comfier, more personable jail, but still a prison. Strangely he finds he's okay with it, as Steve is there too. It's when Steve eventually and inevitably removes himself from the apartment to go for a run or something that they will have issues.

The buzzer at the front entrance pauses Steve in his hollering. For the past fifteen minutes he's been trying to bribe Barnes out of his hiding place with the promise of chocolate. He even tried to convince JARVIS to give up the exact location of Bucky's whereabouts, but JARVIS was kind enough only to specify that Barnes was in: "Steve Roger's Apartment, 34b".

The doorbell goes off again, and his hand twitches fearfully. It threatens to fling the cupboard door wide open and reveal him. He still might, if the visitor has any malevolent intent towards Steve.

It's through the crack of space between the hinge and the door that he can see Steve stroll across the room and check the sensor panel to see his guest.

Bucky waits. Steve takes hold of the door and opens it, only to reveal the redhead, Romanoff.

A baited pause. Then Steve steps aside to let her in.

"Where's your right-hand man, Rogers?" She asks, these the first words out of her mouth after a lengthy silence between the two.

She peeks her head into the lounge and her eyes flick in both directions before she enters the room.

Steve shrugs.

"I wish I knew. He's been hiding from me all day. I don't know what I did to deserve such rejection."

A single eyebrow on her features twitches, the left one, as she pushes past Steve and strides toward the couch in the middle of the room. Her bob of flame hair bounces as she goes. Steve follows her after closing the door. His actions are slower than hers, he looks exhausted. Bucky feels something in his chest twinge with self-hatred. Steve looks like that because of him, this is a fact not even Captain Denial can reject.

"Up late last night?" Natasha says, dumping a pastel yellow folder on the table between them, Steve sitting himself on the parallel couch.

He sighs.

"You could say that."

She gives him a sympathetic look.

"You seem to be frequenting that look these days, the worn and weary…" she acknowledges. "Well, as weary as you could ever look. It's practically a crime that you can look so good with so little sleep."

Steve chuckles, but there isn't any real amusement behind it, it's a humourless laugh.

"You should've seen me during the war—weary would've been putting it nicely." He says conversationally.

She smiles softly and it is a strange kindness from her, but Steve is clearly thankful for it. She doesn't press him for details, but he continues anyway, directing the conversation to an even worse topic.

"He wants to be on the team," Steve says bluntly, his next words practically a torrent of issues. "But he's not ready. I know it, and I think he knows it too, but it doesn't stop him from hating me for it and… __god__ , I don't want him to hate me. I know it's my responsibility to put my foot down and say 'no', though. I mean, it's not like I __want__ to say no to him, but he's not mentally stable enough to leave the goddamn apartment let alone go on a mission! Emotionally, he's all over the place, one minute he's smiling, dancing, the next, he's yelling at me, then crying and begging me to forgive him. I don't know what to do, Natasha."

Inside the cupboard, Bucky frowns and feels his mouth curl into something unhappy. He doesn't hate Steve, why would he even think that? Obviously, he needs to be better. Bucky needs to be better for him. Stupid malfunction, why can't it just fix itself?

On the lounge, Romanoff twists her crimson red lips into an expression Bucky can't read.

"I think… you're doing as well as any of us could be doing in this circumstance. Certainly better than I ever could. My only advice would be to just take it slowly. I've had my own experiences involving recovering brainwashed spies and let me tell you, they'll lash out in weird ways."

Steve gives her a wry smile, but she's already moved on.

"The hard drive, the USB I gave you, did you look?"

Bucky's eyes narrow suspiciously as Steve reaches around the back of his neck and hangs his head.

"Yeah," he says on a sigh. "I did."

"Good," is all she says before flipping the folder open. "So we're on the same page then."

Steve rubs his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, which gives her momentary pause.

"Sorry," he says after a minute of her staring. "I'm still trying to process a lot of it. It was. Difficult to see."

She drops her voice into something akin to a murmur.

"Yeah, I know. I… really am sorry, Steve. Not just for what S.H.I.E.L.D. did—or neglected to do—but for my involvement in any of it. I just… I really thought I was doing the right thing by him there."

"I know," he replies slowly, equally as quiet. "I thought that at the time too."

She twitches a reassuring smile his way and her voice brightens.

"He's here now though, yes? That's a step in the right direction."

He kindly returns her smile.

"Yeah," he responds. "He's even sleeping, that's better than before. He's had nightmares and episodes every night so far, but I think we're making a little progress. At least he's actually getting some sleep, even if it is only a couple of hours."

"You're both working hard at this. Recovery isn't easy at the best of times, and Barnes has a mountain in front of him."

Steve nods and laces his fingers together.

"But you know," she continues. "We're still going to have to take a blood sample, and we need to see how much damage has been done to his nervous system. Banner also wants to take an MRI to see what's going on up __there__." She taps a finger to her temple twice.

Steve shuts his eyes briefly.

"That isn't going to be fun," he says.

Romanoff closes the folder. Did she even look at the thing or did she just do that for dramatic effect?

"No," she agrees.

"It sounds to me like you've already made preparations, right?" He guesses.

She nods reluctantly.

He twitches and sighs again.

"So when's the appointment?" He breathes on the end of a vocal crack.

"There's two. One today at three-thirty, in Tony's medical suite—for the blood sample—the second one is tomorrow."

"Today? So soon?"

"The sooner, the better," she nods sagely. "Also, Dr. Cho is flying in from South Korea as we speak. Her invention, the Cradle, can be used to stimulate skin cell growth, so we're hoping she can, in time, adapt it to brain cells."

For someone as dense as Steve, Bucky is surprised he realises what she's alluding to as fast as he does.

"You want to reconstruct Bucky's brain?" He cries sharply, jerking forward abruptly.

"Not reconstruct," she corrects pointedly. "Repair. The parts of his brain that are in tact will remain that way. Dr. Cho is simply going to see if it's possible to repair the damage that has already been done. The H.Y.D.R.A. documents S.H.I.E.L.D. recovered about Barnes were on that USB. We __know__ they did stuff to his brain. That earliest recording of him? That was made nearly forty years ago, but I'm betting their execution of those particular techniques only refined over time."

Recordings? What the fuck has she been showing Steve? Nothing good, he's sure.

Steve lets out a long sigh.

"Great," he punctuates flatly. "Looking forward to it."

"Vacation's gotta end sometime, Steve." Romanoff states factually.

He doesn't reply. Then Bucky hears the quietest swear he's ever heard and he cocks and eyebrow at Steve's language. Romanoff ignores it and again opens the folder in her hands.

She lays papers all over the table and Steve seems to have some sort of panic attack over aforementioned appointment, but she exercises patience with practiced restraint until Steve is done.

Bucky would very much like to know what it is she is showing him.

Steve slowly picks up a sheet of paper and stares at it, seemingly lost in what he is reading.

"This is everything we've got on our scout missions so far. It isn't everything there is, we're pretty damn sure of that, but it's a start." She says, brows furrowed as she stares at Steve's thinking face.

"There's still a fair bit here, Natasha," he acknowledges without looking at her. "Thank you, for all of this."

To Bucky it looks like she soaks up the compliment and preens a little, but she hides it so well that he could be mistaken. His eyes could very well be playing tricks on him.

"You want to keep this here with you?" She asks after a moment.

It takes Steve nearly a full minute to answer, so engrossed in his reading that Bucky starts to wonder if he'd heard her at all.

"No," he says finally. "Take it with you. He already wants to go on the mission as it is, getting his hands on this would only entice him further."

Barnes shivers with irritation, knowing he is the person in question.

"Alright," she agrees. "But maybe don't hold your breath about not being avoided for the next few days."

Steve frowns.

"Why?" He tips his head a little like a confused cartoon bird.

"Because he's probably really pissed off you said that."

She fucking knows! Barnes doesn't quite know how she worked it out, but his heart rate climbs exponentially as a flash of adrenaline courses through him.

She stands and crosses the room smoothly, opening the cupboard he's hiding in with a smug smirk. He hisses at her, the same time he hears Steve exclaim his name.

"Found you," she says.

He narrows his eyes at her as she steps aside, allowing him space to climb out of the cupboard.

Drawing himself to his regular height, he suddenly feels like he's been emotionally backhanded.

She ratted him out, sure, but her kindness lay in her letting him hear all he had. She could've pointed Steve to him in mere seconds, but she hadn't. He doesn't know whether to deck her or thank her.

He's saved the trouble of deciding when Steve practically shouts, "You were in there the whole time!?"

Romanoff leaves his side to gather her things. Steve blusters around the room, waving his hands in the air with exasperation.

And just like that, he dislikes her again.

After she leaves—(Bucky's admittedly happy to see her go)—Steve calms a little. He mills around the apartment for a while, turns the radio on to some "classics" station where all the singers have husky voices and all the songs are accompanied by muted trumpets and entire string ensembles, and half-heartedly cleans around the kitchen for a while, but doesn't do much other than wipe down the surfaces, his eyes flicking up to meet Bucky's every now and again.

It's past twelve-thirty when he abandons the stove-top, turns off the radio and clears his throat.

"You want some lunch, Buck?" He asks.

"Okay," Barnes replies, shifting off the couch and seating himself in the chair he has claimed as his own.

"Alrighty, what would you like in your sandwich?" Steve enquires.

Bucky doesn't know.

"Whatever you're having," he responds.

Steve nods, acknowledging, and sets about making two massive sandwiches, both of them the size of a bus.

They eat their lunch in silence and when they're done, Bucky takes both their plates and leaves them in the sink. Steve is gone before he turns around again, which momentarily leaves Bucky feeling hurt, but he returns just as quickly, holding a pencil in his left hand and a large rectangular black book in the other.

"You mind if I draw you?" Steve asks, shaking a pencil at him.

"You draw?" He questions.

Steve's face falls a little, and Bucky suddenly feels like this was something he was expected to know. He just stepped on another land mine.

"Yeah, used to draw you all the time, wanna see?" Steve asks.

He nods. Steve leads them to the couch where they sit and he hands over the sketchbook.

Bucky touches the cover reverently, immediately able to tell that this well-worn, ancient thing filled with paper barely newer than parchment, is something infinitely precious to Steve's heart.

And he is showing it to Bucky.

His stomach does a little flip of glee and he feels his mouth pull up at the corners. Turning to the first page, he senses Steve's immediate blush when a huge spread of Bucky's own face comes into view, drawn in pencil.

He is younger here. Smiling. A proper smile, one where his cheeks are pulled up and his teeth show and he is actually happy. His hair is shorter than now. He likes it. It looks really good, smart, high-class.

He reaches up and twiddles a strand of hair around his finger. Maybe he should cut it? He would look like the Bucky Barnes that Steve remembers.

He turns the page.

Two more pages of him. One has him looking straight out of the page and the other he is looking over his shoulder at something undefined in the picture. In the first picture, he is wearing a smart uniform and an army hat. In the second, he is in dark greens and wears dog tags around his neck, they swing from whatever movement he was doing.

We're these drawn from memory or from life? He itches to know, but he doesn't ask.

He turns the page again and is unsurprised to find several more sketches of him taking up the next few pages.

"These are amazing," he says with reverent awe, turning his gaze on Steve.

Steve's blush encroaches down his neck further.

"Uh…" he clears his throat. "Thanks, Buck."

"They're all of me though?"

Steve gives an uncomfortable laugh.

"Yeah."

"You never drew yourself?" Bucky continues.

Steve's eyebrows ascend.

"I tried a few times… I dunno, I just can't draw myself very well…"

"You certainly drew a lot of me," he replies, glancing back at the page.

"I guess I did that." He gets as a murky response.

"Would you draw yourself for me sometime?" He asks.

Steve frowns a little.

"Why?"

This time it's Bucky who feels embarrassed. He averts his eyes.

"I… I just think I would like a picture of you." He says.

Steve's mouth twitches into something that could almost be described as a smile.

"Sure, Buck. I'll draw you a picture of me sometime." He says. "But for now…" he trails off and takes the sketchbook out of Barnes hands, flipping to a blank page. "I think I'd like to draw you."

"Okay," he answers placidly, drawing his feet onto the couch. "You want me to pose?"

Steve laughs.

"No, it's fine. Just sit there, okay?"

"Okay."

"You want me to turn the TV on? You'll probably get bored sitting like that."

"It's okay. I won't get bored."

Steve just shrugs and starts sketching.

Bucky's correct on the bored part. He doesn't get bored, he falls asleep leaning against the back of the lounge instead. And Steve doesn't wake him up. He only jerks awake when one of his feet slip off the couch.

He lets out a weird sound and blinks the blurriness out of his eyes as he flails himself upright.

"You're awake," Steve says behind a chuckle.

"Sleep?" He replies incoherently. Steve gets it anyway.

"You needed it."

He ignores Steve.

"How long was I asleep for?"

"'Bout an hour and a half."

Sure enough, when he glances at the clock in the kitchen, it reads two-forty-eight.

Steve stares at him.

"Just in case you missed it when you were listening to my conversation with Romanoff earlier," he says. "We have to go and visit Dr. Banner at three-thirty so he can take a blood sample, okay?"

He nods, feeling a little accused from the pointed reminder of his unsanctioned eavesdropping. He's sure Steve didn't mean it that way though.

Steve watches him for a moment and then goes back to his sketching. It's silent for a moment, the good and unhurried kind of quiet, the kind where nobody is asking anything of you, demanding an answer.

"Can I see your drawing?" Barnes interrupts, the peace dissipating.

Steve looks a little surprised, but hands it over anyway with a small, "Sure".

What greets him on the page is an image of his sleeping self. The lines on his face that are there when he is awake have smoothed out into something resembling the younger drawing of himself and he can finally see some real similarities between the two images that he just hadn't noticed before, but…

He hands the sketchbook back to Steve without a word.

…he looks haggard in the drawing. Old and used. He couldn't explain to anybody why Steve would want him here. He's just... depressing to see.

"You don't like it?" Steve asks, the pencil in his hand resting on the spine of his book.

Something must've shown on his face. He proceeds to smooth out his features into something blank and neutral. He really wishes Steve hadn't said that. He doesn't want to __lie__ to Steve, but to speak truthfully would injure his feelings.

"That's okay," says Steve, getting the jump on his answer and looking back down at the sketch in his hand. "I don't really like looking at pictures of myself either and, besides, you're allowed not to like it. It's not as good as the earlier ones, I... haven't really practiced all that much recently."

Why is Steve talking himself down like this? It's a fantastic drawing, Barnes just doesn't like that the captured image is one of his crumbling and worthless self.

"It is a good picture, Steve." He says honestly, before he drops his gaze a little. "I'm just not a good subject."

Even from his peripheral vision he can see the way Steve's face contorts into a frown.

"Now that's just not true." he says. "Attested to by this here entire sketchbook." He shakes the book a little.

"Maybe I _was..._ " he chokes on the words. They don't want to come out, he doesn't want to admit the truth. "But that's not me anymore, Steve."

 _Stop. Don't tell him. Don't say anything to Steve. He doesn't want to hear this, you will hurt him if he knows the truth. You will hurt him! Keep your mouth shut and don't say anything!_

"...I'm not __that__ Bucky Barnes, I never will be. I don't know how."

Steve deposits the sketchbook on the wooden floor, and the pencil drops from his hand, all but forgotten as he crawls across the space between them on his hands and knees. He sits back on his folded legs and his hands reach up to cup Barnes' face. Bucky wants to turn his head, but Steve has him securely and he can't tear himself away from those earnest blue eyes that stare straight into his soul.

"You don't have to be him, Buck."

The words are so honest that he thinks they may have permeated straight to his very core. But he cannot bring himself to believe in their truth. He has to force himself to remember that, while those words may be truthful for Steve, he knows better, he already understands that what Steve wants, he can't give. He can't __be__ normal. He doesn't remember how. All he knows how to do is follow orders and destroy and fuck shit up. It doesn't matter what he wants, he's not even supposed to __have__ wants.

"But… __he's__ the Bucky Barnes you remember..." he says, frighteningly unexpected tears blurring his vision on both side. "He's the one you want. I'm just this… __thing__. I'm a monster, Steve."

The tears have broken over, spilling fresh onto his cheeks. Steve wipes each one away carefully with the pad of his thumb.

"I've seen monsters," replies Steve, diligently running his thumb over Bucky's cheekbone in a soothing manner. "I watched a crazy man, hell bent on world domination, rip his whole face off, Buck. You remember that?"

Bucky half shakes and half nods his head because the memory is extremely hazy, but it is there. He watched Johann Schmidt become Red Skull.

"Let me tell you, I've seen all kinds of monsters. The people kind and the literal flew in from outer space kind and almost everything in between," he says. "And Bucky? You're nothing like any of 'em. You're not a monster. You're a man. You're my best friend, crying out for help in a world that only sees people's pasts and disregards their futures. I __know__ you. You're a good man, a true and loyal friend who fights fiercely to protect the good in this world. The people that have taken that part of yourself away from you? __They're__ the monsters."

They sit for a second and then Bucky withdraws.

"How can you believe that?" He whispers. "How can you just... disregard all I have done, all the blood on these hands? I've killed people. I'm a murderer."

"I believe it because it's the truth. And, no matter what you say, I will always stick by what I've said."

Bucky wants nothing more than to gape at Steve and his stubborn set jaw. But he keeps his mouth closed. He wonders if it is okay to believe Steve. To even think such things about himself. H.Y.D.R.A. deserves to burn and crumble for all that it has done, but he can hardly deny the same about himself. What he has and what he deserves are worlds apart right now.

"So," says Steve on a lighter note, retrieving his pencil from where it has rolled and pulling his sketchbook off the floor. "Is it okay for me to continue drawing my favourite model?"

When three-thirty rolls around, Barnes feels the chitters come over him. More than just a little raw around the edges, he feels like a knife has peeled back the first layer of skin over his whole body.

Steve takes his hand when they pop into the elevator. He noticed Bucky's chattering teeth and the anchor of their joined hands gives Barnes something to focus on, other than how anxious he feels. Steve continuously reassures him that everything is going to be fine, but it's not Steve's fault he's afraid of needles and doctors.

JARVIS opens the elevator on the medical suite and Bucky immediately sees the four or five doctors shuffling around, all of them on touch-screen devices, tapping away. He swallows nervously, heart jumping into his throat as Steve tugs at his hand and pulls him gently out of the elevator. It's only when the doors close behind him that he feels truly trapped.

"Breathe in and out real slowly now, okay?" Steve says, Bucky squeezing his hand so tight he's surprised Steve hasn't protested yet.

Before they manage to seat themselves in the waiting area outside the lab, a familiar man wearing a white lab coat and glasses approaches them at barely more than a cautious shuffle.

"Sargent Barnes?" He asks, addressing Bucky directly. He doesn't wait for confirmation of identity. "I'm Dr. Bruce Banner, it's nice to formally meet you. I've heard a lot about you from Natasha."

Dr. Banner doesn't extend a hand, but nods and clutches his tablet closer to his chest. Barnes notes that the dark aura surrounding him hasn't dissipated since he last saw the man and briefly, he wonders why, before deciding its none of his business. Barnes has secrets, ones he'd rather stay buried, he's sure Dr. Banner is the same.

"I've seen you," Bucky replies without ceremony. "In the common area that day."

"Ah yes, I recall." Bruce taps the side of his tablet absentmindedly with a finger. "My apologies for not speaking with you then. I'm a little... short with people, you see? It's best I keep to myself mostly."

Barnes can appreciate that.

"Why don't we get you both seated?" He continues, leading the pair through the labyrinth of medical equipment scattered throughout the room. They reach a pair of plain black seats in the middle of the room and when Steve takes one, Dr. Banner quietly asks Bucky if he could have a seat on the table beside it.

He gets jittery when he releases Steve's hand in order to hoist himself up onto the table, but Steve leaves his palm open for Bucky to grab immediately afterwards.

"Alright," says Dr. Banner, setting his device aside. " Now, Sargent Barnes, if you could lie back for me..."

Bucky lowers himself into the familiarly vulnerable position he's had to assume before. He feels Steve squeeze his hand and he closes his eyes, trying to focus only on the point of contact between them. He breathes in and out slowly with Steve's direction, and the cannula Dr. Banner pricks him with barely registers at all.

"You're okay," murmurs Steve reassuringly. "I'm going to keep talking, you just listen to the sound of my voice, okay?"

Bucky doesn't acknowledge him, but Steve sends him another squeeze through their joined hands.

Three more breaths are taken, in and out, and then his eyes open without his conscious control. He watches as Dr. Banner hands the first sample of blood to a nurse and she does something with it outside of Bucky's field of vision. Dr. Banner is already taking the second sample, but Barnes becomes distracted when he hands that one to the nurse, because Steve is rubbing his thumb in circular motions over the back of Bucky's hand.

When the final sample is handed off, Barnes stiff shoulders have relaxed minutely. Dr. Banner proceeds to pull the needle out and quickly, but firmly, presses a cotton pad onto the place where it was removed. The moment it is out, Steve quirks him a smile and softly, but enthusiastically starts muttering praises.

It is a few moments later that Dr. Banner allows him to sit up. A nurse wanders over and hands him a cup of water and a cookie, which, when he bites into, he is pleasantly surprised to find tastes like lemon and honey.

"Thank you, Sargent Barnes," says Dr. Banner, giving him a nod. "You are free to go now, but I will see you back here tomorrow for the MRI."

Steve thanks Dr. Banner, but the man doesn't stick around long. Too interested in Bucky's blood. It's not like this is the first time someone's been invested in what lies in his cells. He bustles off to find the nurse who took the samples.

"You did well, Buck." says Steve, a broad smile spreading across his features as he helps Bucky off the table.

"Steve," he replies, handing off the empty cup to the waiting nurse. "If I do it again, do I get another of these?" He shakes the cookie at Steve, who just laughs at him.

He frowns. Is that a no?

"Bucky, we can get cookies at home!" he replies.

Oh.

"What kind would you like?" continues Steve, ushering him out the door.

"I didn't know there was more than one type..." he answers.

"Yeah, there's all different flavours and styles of cookies. Maybe we can order a few and you can see what you like best?"

The conversation stays plain and light and Bucky feels a smile pull at the corners of his mouth as Steve rattles off about cookies and cakes and desserts. He did good today. Steve is pleased with him. Steve told him he'd accept Bucky as he is, insane faults, murderous history and all. Perhaps he can bring himself to believe Steve, maybe if he does good and listens and behaves and keeps his nightmares in check, then maybe, __just__ maybe, he can belong by Steve's side on his upcoming mission.


	9. IX Bold is the day

Cenotaph

—

 _Colonel Cold strode up the Line_

 _(Tabs of rime and spurs of ice),_

 _Stiffened all where he did glare,_

 _Horses, men, and lice._

— Edgell Rickwood

—

 **VIIII. Bold is the day in which the night watchman stays.**

Bucky knows Steve is sitting upright and awake in bed at three-oh-five in the morning— he can feel part of his left shoulder pressed up against the side of Steve's thigh. To him, it's clear that Steve's mind won't stop humming with dark, possibly disturbing thoughts; things, Bucky guesses, Steve doesn't want to think about and therefore are keeping him awake—the age old flaw of humans.

His brain probably doesn't scream like Bucky's, but perhaps the yelling in there is loud enough to keep him awake and alert. Bucky remembers how it feels not to be able to sleep, only to pass out when exhaustion overtook him, and feels empathy for Steve. He calculates that Steve has been awake for three point two hours now. Sleep has been eluding him as his mind turns information over. Probably about Bucky, he conjectures. Steve doesn't know he's also awake because he lies still and keeps his breathing long and even. He listens, waits, keeps his eyes closed.

He feels it when Steve's fingers brush a lock away from his forehead. Bucky wonders if there is a small smile on his lips. He hopes so. He likes Steve's smile. Particularly, when that said smile is directed at him. It's like early morning at dawn, holds all hope and beauty within Bucky's fragile world. It feels wrong, somehow, that he should be allowed near such an untainted, perfect person. Him, the disparage of human weakness bottled up by rage and hurt and pain.

The fingers reach back and start softly combing through his mop of hair, they were doing this earlier too—it's what woke him in the first place, but it is comforting. Steve's hands are big, yet his artist fingers are gentle. Bucky very much appreciates Steve's hands, one day he will tell him so.

A content little sigh escapes his lips against his permission and he stiffens for half a second, waiting for Steve to work out he's awake. But he doesn't. Bucky is surprised instead by a soft chuckle. The petting and stroking through his hair doesn't stop, so he relaxes again, muscles uncurling from their tightly wound springs.

All Bucky can hear is the traffic outside and all he feels is warm and safe, but then, Steve has to go and ruin it.

"I'm sorry," lurches out of Steve's mouth, the volume barely a whisper. Its clear he doesn't mean to wake Bucky with his barely audible words, but it's too late for that, and Bucky doesn't think he could possibly fall asleep again with Steve whispering regrets in his ear. "I didn't… I don't mean for things to be like this."

Bucky's heart does a weird thing. Like a back-flip, followed by an increase in speed.

"I just want you to be happy and safe," he continues. "But I don't know how and…" another sigh, "I'm just muddling my way through these feelings."

He feels Steve's fingers run through his hair again, hardly touching his scalp at all.

"You've been starved of affection and kindness for too long… I don't want to take advantage of that but… I think I already am. I'm sorry I'm not who you think I am."

Barnes thinks that this is Steve and he's quite positive that there isn't a person alive that could impersonate Steve for this long and this well. This is Steve. Absolutely. Then, what is he saying? There's something here, in Steve's tone, that he's just not getting. Something unspoken, implied. He doesn't understand it, whatever it is.

Steve retracts his hand from Bucky's hair—the loss of which is mourned—and gently pecks his forehead with a kiss. Steve says nothing else, but he can feel the telltale depression in the bed that means Steve is getting up.

Soft footsteps pad out the room, but it's a whole minute before he opens his eyes. His heart is hammering and he wills himself to breathe in and out, deeply and slowly.

What the fuck, Steve?

Seriously, what the actual hell was that about? Don't go fucking with a guy like that.

Slowly, Barnes sits up, eyes glancing over the room, scanning it. He notes that Steve's sketchbook is missing.

He pushes back the covers and swings his legs out until his bare feet touch the floor. He can hear the scratching of pencil on paper from the bed.

Stepping softly over to the open door, Bucky can see the back of Steve's head from where he sits on the couch. He watches for a moment as he ponders what to do. Before he can make a final decision—approach Steve, or go back to bed and pretend this never happened—Steve hurls his pencil across the room and it snaps against the island counter.

Barnes flinches.

 _Steve, you okay buddy?_

Steve drops his sketch book and heads to the bathroom, shutting the door quietly behind him.

A minute later, the shower is turned on.

Barnes stands in the doorway blankly, unknowing of what to do. He clenches and unclenches his hands a few times, they tremble a little. He feels the hard floor beneath his feet.

Steve doesn't emerge from the bathroom, not until forty minutes later, hair wet (again? When will he learn to dry it?), dark towel wrapped around his waist. He doesn't see Barnes, lurking in the shadow between the door and the wall of the bedroom.

Steve sits back down on the couch and… does nothing. Sits, stares at nothing.

It's a bit creepy. Bucky wonders if that's what he looks like when he gets stuck in his own head. He's pretty sure his head is filled with more screaming though, Steve doesn't win at being the most fucked up, nuh-uh, that's his cake to take.

After twenty solid minutes of Steve doing absolutely nothing except staring unseeingly into the kitchen, Barnes decides he needs to take initiative. Someone's gotta rescue the guy from himself.

Steve hears him after one footfall. Bucky is pleased he can be proved conscious after all.

Steve watches him approach, but neither of them say anything as Bucky sits on the couch. Up close, he can see the fine hairs on Steve's body all sticking up. He's cold. Did he take a cold shower? That's not very fun. Barnes knows. The soldat remembers the hoses, giant, industrial looking things. He stood there placidly, making sure there was zero trace of emotion on his face as he did what he was told, placing his hands on the wall and bracing for the freezing water to hit his back. They razed him until his back was so numb it hurt and his lips went blue. But that memory is covered in a red haze and a white film. He must've only just been pulled from cryo— the freezer has a way of jarring his perspective.

He decides to tell Steve this. He shouldn't be going around taking cold showers. They're so dumb, except in the middle of summer, but even then, baths are better.

"No more cold showers, Stevie. You'll get sick." He says sternly.

It still feels weird when his accent makes itself known. So strange. It doesn't give him any warning either, and he can't shut it off like he can with Russian. This is a thing he has no control over—which would frighten him if Steve didn't look so fond every time it slipped out.

"I know, Buck. Sorry." Steve casts his eyes down, but there's a smile on his lips, so it's not a total loss.

"And you're sittin' there without a shirt and everything. Come back to bed, get warm."

Steve shakes his head.

For half a second Bucky swears there's a memory of a smaller Steve doing the same thing. Shaking his head, hunched over himself.

Bucky doesn't want to pull the, "I'm-worried-about-you" card, but he will if he has too.

"Steve, you look like crap." He says bluntly, accent slowly slipping away. "If you don't go back to bed, I'm bringing the bed out here to you."

Steve's fond expression disappears off his face, and suddenly, Bucky feels like a scolded child.

Don't look like that, Stevie.

"Come on, please." He begs. "I…"

He trails off. Where he was going with that, he doesn't know. He's gotta look out for Steve though, has to look after him. Needs him to go back to bed, get warm, get rest.

Steve does something weird. Perhaps in response to Barnes' distressed expression? —(Bucky knows what his face is doing).

He pulls him into a hug.

Barnes doesn't move. Steve presses his face into Bucky's shoulder, but he doesn't move. What is the correct response here? Is there a protocol for this? What does this even mean?

Nothing happens. Bucky just slowly feels his arms lift and wrap around Steve's back of their own volition. Is this right?

"I'm not doing well at this, am I…" he mutters so low that Barnes barely catches it.

Huh?

Gripping both of Bucky's forearms, he draws back, keeping his eyes down.

Barnes is… bewildered, because: What?

"I'm sorry, Buck." He apologises, still holding him at arms length. "I… just can't go back to sleep. I can't."

He meets Barnes' eyes with a look of such sadness that Bucky feels the wind knocked out of him.

"Every time I close my eyes, all I see is that H.Y.D.R.A. file Natasha recovered… all I see is what they did to you and it's… god, it's horrific. I'm sorry. You know this. You're the one they did it all to. But I can't go back to sleep Buck, I just can't. I don't want to see that."

Oh.

No, he gets it.

He remembers. Not all, but some.

Fragments. Electrocution, experimentation, stuff like that. He thinks he blocked the worst of it out. Steve is having nightmares.

"I'm sorry you saw that, Steve." He sighs. "You didn't deserve to see that."

Steve makes desperate eyes at him this time, and then his face crumples.

"Bucky, for crying out loud! You didn't deserve what happened to you! Why the heck are you worried about me?!"

He puts a palm against Steve's cheek and feels him stiffen, but not draw away.

"Because… you're good, Steve. You're a good person."

There's an unspoken undertone that Bucky leaves, the one that says Barnes is not a good person. That, in fact, what H.Y.D.R.A. did, what they made him do, he deserved. But Steve doesn't seem to notice.

Steve leans into his touch until he suddenly seems to realise what he's doing and pulls away. Was it wrong to touch Steve like this? He doesn't know or understand, Steve's reactions are so confusing to him.

"I shouldn't be telling you this, I shouldn't have put this on you." Steve says, jerking a bit. "You're already dealing with so much, I shouldn't have burden you with my own pathetic problems."

"Your problems aren't pathetic, Steve." He replies, sincerely serious.

Steve just gives him a fleeting fond look, chased up by a long-withheld sigh.

"Even after all this time, Buck, you're still lookin' after me…" he says it with nostalgia, but also like it's something he wishes Bucky would stop doing. Barnes hadn't even known it was a thing he'd done before, he just can't lose Steve to his own careless neglect and rusty protocols. He has to take care of Steve because no one else will, not even Steve himself it seems, who still sits there in a towel and nothing else. Doesn't Steve see that? He is the only one Bucky has.

"You look after me too, Stevie…" he acknowledges in a whisper.

There's a pause filled with silence, but Bucky can plainly see Steve's eyes watering with emotion.

"Let's go back to bed," Bucky tries one more time. "We don't have to sleep."

This time, Steve reluctantly concedes with a bit of prompting from Bucky's end.

It feels oddly nice, though it sends a tingly sensation up Bucky's arm when Steve slots a hand into his on the way back to the bedroom.

"Is this okay?" Steve asks as they reach the bedroom door. He looks worried.

"Yes?" He replies.

Steve gives him a dubious look and starts to retract his hand—(Bucky clings tighter)—before he gets a chance to continue.

"Why wouldn't it be?"

Steve just shrugs and casts his gaze away.

"I dunno…" he trails off as Bucky leads them back to the bed. He looks like he wants to say something more, looks like he wants to protest something, but in the end, nothing. Steve Rogers is a perplexing and confusing man to understand.

Steve throws on some pyjamas, but Bucky just stares at him, well, glares, until he climbs under the covers and puts his head on the pillow.

"Good." Barnes says firmly, repressing the smug smile that threatens at the corner of his lips.

Steve gives him a half-hearted smirk as Bucky settles down beside him.

"You look so pleased with yourself, punk." Steve snickers.

"Jerk."

The word flies out of his mouth reflexively. This, he feels in the back of his fried brain, is a code, a sequence. What the code is supposed to trigger, he doesn't know because nothing happens except for a smile, that spreads across Steve's features.

Bucky wasn't even aware his face was doing anything, he thought he'd concealed it so well.

Steve settles back down and his eyes watch Bucky's own. They lie facing each other and Steve doesn't say another word, so Bucky isn't about to break the peace either.


	10. X Hurry, your burdens await you

Cenotaph

—

 _These are the damned circles Dante trod,_

 _Terrible in hopelessness,_

 _But even skulls have their humour,_

 _An eyeless and sardonic mockery:_

 _And we,_

 _Sitting with streaming eyes in the acrid smoke,_

 _That marks our foul, damp billet,_

 _Chant bitterly, with raucous voices_

 _As a choir of frogs_

 _In hideous irony, our patriotic songs._

— Frederic Manning

—

 **X. Hurry, your burdens await you.**

Bucky wakes first the next day. His heart an anxious beat. A percussionist hits a sombre bass drum inside him, reminding him in the wake of his nightmare that he is actually, still alive. There's a painful, drilling headache behind his eyes and he rubs his temples, the feeling somewhat akin to that of needles stabbing his brain, and a cold sweat running down his back, pooling at the base of his spine. For a moment he struggles to swallow, the feeling of a mouth guard all too real and present in his imagination—it sends a violent, icy shiver up into the base of his skull.

Finding enough willpower and mental clarity, Barnes calms his breathing before glancing right, where Steve is sleeping soundly. He looks peaceful. Which is good, because Steve said he was having nightmares too and if Bucky could protect him from those, he very much would. Steve doesn't deserve nightmares. Doesn't deserve whatever haunts him.

Today, they visit Doctor Banner again. This time for something called an MRI. He doesn't know what it is, as he's never had one before, but his last visit went okay. Nothing bad or scary happened, so he hopes he can assume the same for this visit. Still, the word "Doctor" makes him inherently nervous, so he hopes Steve stays with him and lets Bucky hold his hand and murmurs reassurances in his deep, smooth voice that sings of old Brooklyn and speaks in a language different to the people of today.

The clock on the far side of the room displays 05:34, so he figures that if he's not going back to sleep—(which he isn't, not after that nightmare)—he might as well get up. It's been a sporadic period of sleep for the both of them over the last twenty-four hours, but he hopes Steve can wake up feeling at least marginally better than he did at three o'clock, when he went to shower in what Barnes believes is possibly the least pleasant way. The thought of a cold shower sends a shudder up his back.

Levering himself up on his metal arm, he twists smoothly out of bed, feet resting on the floor for a moment, careful not to disturb Steve. He waits a breath, just to make sure he wasn't disturbed him, and then pads softly out to the lounge with the intention of making his way to the kitchen.

Espying it from the corner of his peripheral vision, the broken pencil that Steve shattered against the island counter lies as a pertinent reminder of Steve's frustration. It's what pauses him in his journey. Shuffling over, Barnes collects the two pieces and leaves them on the counter, a pang of some crippling, unfamiliar emotion, stinging him violently. Like an angry hornet in his heart. Whatever the emotion is, it hurts like nothing else. The pencil itself reminds him of Steve's drawing book, so he fishes that off the couch and takes it back to the kitchen as well, flipping open to the last page—the picture of him asleep on the couch, late afternoon sun drifting through the window. He hates it less now than he did before, but he's unsure why this is, so he closes the book and turns about, opening the pantry and pulling out foodstuffs.

He knows he has protocols for cooking in him, they're just so old that he hardly recalls them. The only thing he can remember how to make is a simple pasta dish, and though that's not exactly what Steve would consider a breakfast food, he sets about making it anyway.

He's halfway through cooking it when Steve emerges from the bedroom looking tired and stiff, his hair poking up in almost every direction imaginable. It's cute, but somewhere in the back of his mind, a protocol is telling him not to say this to Steve. He would be offended.

"Good morning." Bucky says, giving his pot of boiling pasta a stir. To his own ears, he sounds annoyingly robotic, like the words he speaks are ones he repeats everyday without meaning behind them. He wishes he could sound more _human_.

Steve freezes, before remembering how to reanimate himself.

"Is that what this is?" He delivers blankly, becoming unstuck and sliding into the seat by the counter which is usually occupied by Barnes, followed up by a poorly concealed yawn behind his hand.

Steve probably got up because of him, because he wasn't lying there, radiating warmth. Steve wakes at the oddest things, but somehow it makes Barnes feel important. Like Steve needs him there so he can sleep. He doesn't quite understand it himself, but his stomach does a weird back-flip and something warm scratches at his heart. Bucky feels a smile pull on his lips and he lets it show, which produces a desired result of Steve smiling also.

"What'cha making there pal?" Steve asks, another yawn following. His brow is furrowed and he's leaning forward with curiosity, but his tone is light and in Bucky's ears, it sounds like the echo of a gleeful child.

"Pasta."

"What?"

"Pasta with a tomato sauce."

Steve looks both confused and amused.

"I see… You hadn't thought about making, I dunno, eggs? Or toast?"

From anyone else, that sentence might have sound patronising, but from Steve, it just sounds curious.

"I don't know how." Bucky confesses lamely, slumping minutely.

He doesn't look over his shoulder to see what Steve's face is doing, but he's sure it's doing something.

"Want me to teach you?" Steve's voice comes out of nowhere. He sounds unsure. Like his offer is too presumptuous, like Bucky might actually say ' _no_ '.

Before he can answer, Steve is barrelling on, adding, "You know, only if you want, Buck. I mean, I'm not a very good cook and I'm probably an even worse teacher—"

Bucky rolls his eyes and interjects.

"No," he says, turning to look back at Steve. "I'd… like to learn."

Steve instantly brightens, his sunshine face so alive that it lights up the entire room.

"Sure! Great!" He barks out, still smiling.

While staring at Steve's enthused face, some emotion Bucky hasn't felt in a while hits him like a brick. It takes him a minute to catch his breath from it and work out what it is.

Contentment, he realises eventually.

* * *

Dr. Banner and Dr. Cho are waiting for them when they arrive. Bucky would like to say that having the two doctors staring at him like that doesn't make him nervous, but he can't, it would be an obvious lie. Even Captain Oblivious would see through him on that one, and Steve's already side-eyeing him, worry painted clearly in his expression, anxiety behind his pools of crystal blue. Bucky takes note of Steve's right hand, flinching every few seconds, as if to reach out and take his metal one though not sure if he should. Steve's lucky he's not stupid. Barnes takes the initiative, and a weird kind of relief fills him when Steve's muscles relax at his touch—metal slipping into flesh. However, it doesn't stop the exact opposite from happening to him. His muscles all tense up and the painful, drilling headache that hadn't dissipated from earlier returns for an even more thrilling encore. Maybe, if he's _really_ lucky, it'll skip straight past intense migraine and simply knock him out from the sheer, slicing pain. But when has he ever been that lucky?

"Sargent Barnes, Captain Rogers," Dr. Banner greets them, once again avoiding handshakes, much to Bucky's approval. "I'd like to formally introduce Dr. Cho."

It becomes immediately clear that Steve and Dr. Cho have already been acquainted before. No woman keeps her eyes off the famed Captain America—all muscle and sunshine. Especially not to look at him, the piece of algae Steve scraped off the side of a pond and decided to name and keep.

"Nice to meet you," he greets with a nod, still sounding eerily robotic to his own ears.

"Likewise." she replies curtly, a stiff nod in return. Dr. Cho apparently doesn't like him very much. Her attitude causes him to curl into himself a little.

He hadn't noticed how his left hand had tightened in Steve's at her venomous inflection, but he feels it when Steve squeezes back, even though it's made of metal.

"Alright, let's get started then, shall we?" Dr. Banner says, stepping in to clear the air between Barnes and Dr. Cho. Steve hadn't noticed the animosity between them, but Dr. Banner apparently has a nose for these things—something for which Barnes is thankful.

Dr. Banner hands him a gown and tells him to change in a small room to his left. The gown hardly covers anything, but he is ordered to remove all clothes, even his socks. This part feels semi-familiar. Did they make him do this at H.Y.D.R.A. or S.H.I.E.L.D.? So they could do tests on him? Sounds likely.

When he returns, it is Dr. Cho who leads them to the MRI scanner in the back of the lab. Her high-heels clicking against the floor with every step, each one making Bucky more and more nervous until he's sure he's about to throw up the contents of his stomach. It's lucky that Steve's taken his hand again―his right one this time―because it's the only thing keeping him inside himself right now. Behind him, a low whistle at the sight of the monstrosity that comes into view. Barnes just shrinks and feels himself go pale, a freight train of fears smashing squarely into his gut.

"Man, I know we live by the graciousness of Stark's generosity, but seriously, I'm so impressed by all the gadgets and gizmos he's got around this place." Steve says, taking in the sight of the machine as though one was drinking in sun-rays.

Dr. Cho starts rambling on about "lastest technology" and "highest resolution scanner to date", but Barnes just blocks it all out, concentrating on his breathing. It takes him a full sixty-seconds to even work out how to lift his eyes, previously glued to the floor between his feet, but when he finally does, he can see why Steve's impressed. The machine is absurd. And frighteningly, reminds him of a stasis pod.

The thought makes him pale.

"Okay," says Dr. Cho, his eyes quickly snapping to hers. "Sargent Barnes, I'm going to need you to get up onto the table here."

Steve gives his hand another squeeze before letting him go. Bucky suddenly feels as though he's been untethered from the earth and, no longer grounded, he floats over to Dr. Cho.

After seating himself on the table, his brain whites out. He can hear the orders she's giving him, but it is not him obeying them. It's only when he's going into the machine head-first that he comes back to himself.

 _No talking_. She said.

 _No moving._

Something stubborn and fearful makes him obey these orders. It locks his muscles into place and, before he knows it, he's grinding his teeth together, tongue seeking out that familiar piece of rubber that he so dearly wishes to bite down on right now.

Fuck. He's so _scared_.

No talking!

No talking.

Not a sound. Not a whimper.

If even a hum comes out, he'll be punished. They'll punish him, they'll wipe him… and he doesn't want to forget Steve again.

He holds back a scream as the machine encases him. Silence enfolds him, his mouth pops open, seeking out the air he's sure will stale in just a moment. He waits for artificial air or pain through every muscle. The world is spinning very fast, yet turning very slow. Time really isn't making all that much sense, that's always the way with cryostasis though. He'll go to sleep now and wake up ten years into the future. None of the technicians will be the same, his handler probably won't be the same. But _he'll_ be the same.

He feels it when the machine moves again, drawing him out at a horrifically slow pace. And time starts again.

The air in his lungs moves in and out. Inhale. Exhale.

"Buck?"

A voice. Steve's voice.

"Sargent Barnes?"

That's not Steve's voice.

Something in him snaps, and all he sees is red. It goes off like a siren in his head. A screeching siren that gets louder and louder and louder until he can't hear his own thoughts anymore.

Something happens.

His body moves by itself.

Someone screams close to him, yet they are so far away.

His muscles pull back, his hand curls into a fist and he lets it fly.

It makes contact with something, though somehow he knows it isn't the intended target.

He just wants the screaming to stop! He aims for the scream again, fist pulling back for a second time.

Something pins his hand back, he lashes out with his feet instead, hitting the combatant in the stomach.

His hand is reluctantly released.

He bolts for the door.

Another figure. Or the same figure? How is it so fast? No one runs that quickly except for him.

"Bucky?"

The combatant's hands are up. He doesn't want to fight. Too bad.

The word rings a bell, but something about it feels like a code and he won't be used again. He has to get out before the code reset.

His metal hand shatters the internal glass window, which was blocking the emergency stairwell from his sight.

He won't get wiped again.

They should've tied him down, strapped him in. They should've known better.

He runs.

Something follows.

An alarm goes off.

He's down three flights of stairs before he hears an animalistic roar from the place he just left.

A bullet flies past his head.

Another hits his shoulder.

" _Stop_!" Someone yells, gun trained on his face.

He can't. They'll wipe him.

He goes in to snap their neck. He misses.

This combatant is tricky. Nimble. Knows how to escape. This combatant is smaller, but \ has similar training to him. He can tell by the way they move. This one is used to strategy, not brute force.

The first combatant, unfortunately, catches up, and before he can defend himself or twist out of the way without receiving another bullet hole in his body, the combatant has pulled him up by the throat, effectively cutting off his air supply. Without hesitation he is hoisted up and thrown against the concrete wall, the power of twenty men behind the throw.

He feels the back of his head hit hard and something cracks, pain blossoming aggressively. His skull, he thinks. He tries to get up. But he can't. He falls down. He tries again. He staggers sideways and slumps to his knees. Stumbling to his knees every time he puts weight on his feet, staggering back into that submissive position he hates, but cannot escape. He keeps trying anyhow, no matter that his legs won't support his weight and that his brain doesn't know up from down right now. He will crawl his way out if he has too, drag himself across the floor.

He can't see past the alarm in his head, the alarm in the stairwell and the pain seeping through his eyes, savagely bleeding out his face.

His breathing has sped up, he sees the black spots dance around the edges of his vision every time he blinks, like sinister imps. The spots block out everything but what's in front of him, creating a tunnel of sight.

The first combatant approaches.

 _No_.

He has to escape. He has to get away. He feels like a beast, clawing its way to freedom―he has the nagging sensation that this isn't the first time he's tried this, but none of those other times got him anywhere either. It doesn't matter, he still has to _try_.

He attempts to get up again, but the world is spinning frenziedly with unrestrained will. That knock to the back of his head would've rendered anyone else unconscious.

"Bucky."

The voice is firm.

"James Buchanan Barnes."

The code. No, no, no.

"Listen to me," A hand slips into his flesh one. He stares at it, the place where fingers have slipped between his own. "You're safe. You're safe, okay? It's me, it's Steve. I'm gonna keep you safe okay?"

Oh.

"Fuck." He says, realisation beginning to dawn on him through the hell inside his head.

Something goes into his shoulder.

He looks at it.

It's a tranq.

Oh.

The red-head.

Steve.

He doesn't know what happens next.

* * *

Hello! It is me, your author. _I'd just like to say a huge thank you to the people who have left such kind comments for me on this story. I promise you, I read them and weep for joy. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I look forward to hearing from you again in the next :)_

 _Much Love,  
Soulhearts_


	11. XI The vincible man with the iron cast

Cenotaph

—

 _When all we came to know as good_

 _Gave way to Evil's fiery flood,_

 _And monstrous myths of iron and blood_

 _Seem to obscure God's clarity._

—Osbert Sitwell

—

 **XI. The vincible man with the iron cast hand.**

The next day sees Romanoff in their kitchen, drinking hot black coffee. Her mannerisms are feminine, yet somehow also threatening, as she picks grapes off their stems and pops them one at a time into her mouth, staring Bucky down from her place on the counter stool. That's __his__ chair…

Worrying at the inside of his cheek under her formidable glare, her steely stare sends shivers up his spine. She has talents for getting him into trouble with Steve and he doesn't need that now. He only got out of the hospital ward only this morning, having had to stay in overnight for observation, and he's still head over heels doped up on morphine—yeah, he can thank the serum for neutralising that just as quick as they pumped it in.

He's been on the couch for most of the morning, he feels groggy and lethargic and just like the shitty weapon H.Y.D.R.A. made him to be.

Steve doesn't notice. He's too busy, flurrying about in the kitchen, frying things up and making the room smell good with wafting scents.

Red-head pops another grape in her mouth and crunches down on it.

Bucky cringes.

She tosses her curls over her shoulder and folds her tight black pant covered leg neatly over her knee. Her face is made of steel, cold and mechanical. She's like him. He knew this already of course, but the way her features smooth out into nothing, like she's remembering how to be a tool and not a human is very telling of how Bucky remembers H.Y.D.R.A. to be. The both of them were arms to evil.

Bucky subconsciously braces himself before realising he's done so. He forces himself to loosen his white-knuckle grip on the arm of the lounge. What is he preparing for? A fucking wipe? He needs to stay present, he will not have another goddamn repeat of yesterday. He will stay __present__.

She pops another grape in her mouth. Crunch. Swallow.

"What do you remember?"

It comes out of the silence.

Barnes's view of the stove is obscured by the whirr of activity there. Steve rounds on her sharply, before he can even gather his thoughts enough to prepare an adequate reply.

It is unexpected, the way Steve's voice darkens. Something blooms in his lower gut and he curls in tighter when the sensation pricks.

"Nat," he warns in a low voice just tones off a growl, spatula in hand like a sword. Bucky's knight in shinning armour. Great.

She shoots him a sharp glare, but neither of them back down.

She turns back to Bucky, now pointedly ignoring Steve.

"Well?" She prompts, arching an eyebrow.

He curls his arms around his already drawn knees, fingers digging into his calves, knowing he needs to take responsibility for his actions but not wanting to all the same.

Steve gave him the short of the long after he woke up from the tranquilliser Romanoff shot. How he flipped out and basically tried to knock Dr. Cho into next week. He'd shattered a window, which had then had the domino effect of causing whatever dark energy lurked inside Dr. Banner to raise its head and turn the good doctor into its host. Dr. Banner's darkness, which Steve called "Hulk" hadn't killed anyone—(thank god)—but he'd broken Dr. Cho's leg and laid her up in the hospital ward too. The damaged his little brain attack had caused was irreparable, at least in his eyes, and Steve had had to talk him down from a panic attack and out of hysteria. He felt so disgusted with himself, all his hard work, keeping up the walls of his mind. It had all failed him when he'd needed it most, and Steve had looked exhausted from staying by his bedside all night.

" _ _I fucked up, didn't I, Stevie."__ He'd said, it coming out more of a statement than a question, leaving no room for debate. Steve had tried anyway though, of course.

" _ _Not your fault, Buck."__ He'd repeated time and time again, running his thumb along the back of Barnes' hand in that calming way only Steve could achieve.

Bucky had let out a mangled, half-wrecked sob with, __"You keep telling me that, but it isn't true,"__ embedded somewhere between the heaving gasps and cascading tears, with his own helplessness reflected back at him in Steve's eyes. _ _"I can't even let people help me, Steve! How fucked up is that! I snap, I lose myself and when I wake up I can only pray that I didn't kill anyone. I'm malfunctioning!"__

Steve had just pulled himself up onto the cot and squeezed Bucky to his chest, allowing the salty tears to stain his shirt.

" _ _You're not a machine,"__ he'd eventually said, in a voice barely above a whisper. _ _"You're not__ malfunctioning _ _."__

It was kind of him to say, but in his heart, Barnes hadn't really believed it. There was a monster inside of him, a thing with many heads. Every time he thought he'd chopped one off, two more sprouted up and took its place.

"… not much." He replies quietly to Romanoff's question.

Apparently, she doesn't accept this answer. Tapping her heel against the leg of the bar stool with impatience, she does it so the sound, an annoying clink of metal on metal, gets on everyone's nerves.

"The machine," he acquiesces the truth, hoping it will placate her. "I remember being in the machine."

There's a beat of silence.

"But you don't remember coming out?" She guesses, correctly.

He moves his arms around his torso, and she sighs wearily.

Steve clutches the spatula tighter in his hand and turns back to the stove stoically. Bucky can't even begin to guess what's going through his mind right now. He wishes he knew. Is he angry? Sad? Fuck, he hopes not.

"You tried to kill me, you know," she continues. "Tried snap my neck."

He swallows hard, pulse rising in anticipation.

Is Romanoff trying to get him in deep shit with Steve here? Fucking hell, of course she is.

He can't help how sharply his apology comes out, wouldn't have tried to make it softer for her even if he could.

She raises an eyebrow and Steve glances back at him, nothing but concern filling his eyes. Oh good. He's not in Steve's bad books. Maybe Steve already knew…

"Apology accepted," she says, throwing another grape in her mouth. "But you should know, I'm not petty enough to really blame you for that."

Barnes snorts. Accidentally.

"You don't believe me?" She quips.

Uh. No. He doesn't. But is he about to say that to her face? No. _Hell_ no. He's not suicidal.

He shrugs.

Steve glares at her again.

She lets it go, adding, for Steve's benefit, "We're spies, it's in our nature I suppose."

"He wasn't always like you, Natasha!" Steve bites back at her throw away comment, temper flaring.

Steve, buddy, right here. That kind of comment stings. It's well intentioned, but something painful pricks at his heart.

 _ _Inadequacy__.

Ah, yes. That's it. Barnes wishes for once that something would be _easy_.

Bucky thinks he sees hurt flash over her face, but it is masked just as quickly, if it ever even appeared at all.

Steve, however, recognises his wrong straight away, no matter if he saw what Bucky _thinks_ he saw. The blonde idiot slumps against the counter, grey shirt riding up and bunching on the counter-top.

"Sorry, sorry Nat, I…" he sinks further.

The week has been a tough one for Steve, Barnes realises as he notes Steve's shivering frame of stress. His nerves are frayed and his anxiety is at a tipping point.

"'S'not her fault, Stevie," he mutters, garnering both their attentions as he extricates himself from the couch and walks over to the breakfast counter, taking a seat next to the red-head. "And she's kind of right about it anyhow."

Romanoff stares at him like he's grown two heads. Maybe he has. Ha ha ha, fucking hail H.Y.D.R.A.

"What?" He says after a minute, uncomfortable with both her unblinking stare and the silence that has fallen between the three of them.

"I just… I thought you…" she shakes her head and narrows her eyes in suspicion, revealing a card in her deck, moving a piece on her board. "Never thought I'd hear you… sticking up for me."

Barnes feels a smear of a smile slide over his lips.

"Don't get me wrong doll," he says drolly, his Brooklyn accent making an astounding resurgence that quietly sees Steve's eyes light up like a kid on Christmas morning. "You ain't my favourite person, but you're… a safety net. If I need to be stopped, I know you'll have a clear mind about doing so."

She nods. The deal is sealed. If he needs to be taken out, she'll do it, just like the number of times previous. But this time, she has his permission. No, his fucking __blessing__ , even. He'll die if he betrays Steve, she'll make sure of it. It won't matter if it's against his will, he will not break Steve like that again. He, himself, will not be broken like that again. Like a puppet whose strings were glued on and torn off over and over. He refuses. He would absolutely rather die.

He sucks in a breath and clicks his tongue behind his teeth.

"I know I'm going to regret saying this," he continues, more reservedly this time, accent dripping away like the steady flow of the coffee in the background. "But I'm thankful you were there. To stop me, I mean. Ya know, from throwing myself out a window and back into the open arms of H.Y.D.R.A."

Romanoff looks dumbstruck for about two minutes, but slowly, ever so excruciatingly slowly, a smile forms on her face. Her lips press together as though she's trying to hold an emotion back. Which emotion that is, Bucky isn't sure.

"That's one hell of a confession, Barnes," she replies. "But I'll take it for what it is."

She resumes throwing grapes back into her mouth, this time with an almost imperceptible incline twitch of her mouth.

Steve looks wet around the eyes from the exchange, so Bucky stares blankly at him until he turns back to the stove. For some reason, he feels like he should be embarrassed by this whole saga with Romanoff. But he doesn't. He feels safer, strangely more secure than he did before. It's like he's balancing on a tightrope, but if Steve's his harness, Romanoff is his net.

Maybe she'll be his ally too, not just Steve's. It's something to contemplate, something to think about. It's already been a weird morning… hell, he's considering placing Romanoff on his No-Kill list, that __must__ classify this as a weird week.

The thought gives him pause.

Weird __week__? He's thinking in weeks now? Not just hours or days, but _weeks_. It feels absurd to think he's been out of cryo for that long. Weeks.

He smiles. And then frowns. And then smiles and settles into a grimace.

Romanoff throws a confused frown his way.

She is subsequently ignored.

It's after breakfast, when Romanoff leaves, that Steve starts trying to bring the conversation Bucky has been adamantly ignoring to the fore.

He's flicked through twenty-eight channels on the TV before Steve's approaching with that determined but cautious look.

"I know you don't want to talk about it," says Steve, plopping down onto the couch beside him, the tone of his voice leading Bucky to believe that Steve is going to continue this line of questioning whether Bucky wants to talk about it or not.

"I don't," he snaps waspishly, not caring which particular topic Steve is about to breech. Honestly, it doesn't matter. The tone of Steve's voice is already telling him he doesn't want to have this conversation.

Steve lets out a sigh, and continues anyway.

"But I still think you need to talk about it. It doesn't have to be me, we could find a psychiatrist or—"

"About what, Steve?" He whips his head around and glares daggers at him, placing particular emphasis on the 'what'.

"About how I tried to kill Romanoff? About my inability to remain sane for more than ten minutes at a time? About the past? The future? My time with H.Y.D.R.A.? My time with S.H.I.E.L.D? Please, enlighten me on which topic you wish to discuss." He replies venomously.

Steve grimaces and clenches his left hand into a fist, his jaw noticeably working.

"Any of it," Steve replies eventually, his cracked voice barely above a whisper. "All of it."

Barnes isn't quite sure what to say, so he drops his head onto his drawn knees.

"… I'm tired."

Steve looks over and Bucky watches the fondness spread over his features. It tickles some place warm inside him.

"Me too, Buck." He says softly, pulling the tightly curled weapon against him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

Steve's opened his mouth to say something soft and comforting, but what comes out is a terrified yell as he pulls Bucky onto the ground and presses his own body over him, and arm wrapped around Barnes's head.

It all happens so fast that Bucky doesn't know what to do and, at the same time, everything has slowed to an infinitesimal grind of time.

He feels, more than hears the explosion behind him.

A wave of heat and a earth-trembling shake.

He turns his head.

Steve is unconscious.

The room around him is nothing but rubble; he is lucky they were behind the couch. The space where his room was is now gone.

He grabs Steve around the chest and drags him through the open wall where the kitchen used to be.

Four men descend from the helicopter he'd failed to notice hovering outside the window.

Is that what Steve saw? Perhaps a reflection of the helicopter in some surface?

He has no weapons, but four men can't be all that hard to take out. Except, for some reason, they are, and more seem to pour out of nowhere. At first four, suddenly eight, then twelve.

All wear masks, clad in black gear, not unlike that which belonged to the body of the soldier. The patches on their arms are so familiar that his vision shows him eight different variations of the symbol and urges him to shut down, not to fight. If he fights, he will lose. He cannot fight the Hydra. It will win. It is the one enemy he can't defeat. His arm goes numb. His fingers tingle. He brain determinedly tries to shut down higher thought.

He glances at the masks, hoping to find a pair of unsure eyes, but all he sees is his own reflection in the bullet-proof plastic. The only pair of unsure eyes are his. His hand starts to shake. His brain is screaming at him. Funny. He hadn't noticed it had ever even stopped until now. The white noise produces shallow tunnel vision. He can focus on one thing at a time. One thing. One. He has to protect Steve. Steve.

 _Steve_.

His hand strikes out of its own accord. He isn't in control of himself anymore, he doesn't know who is. His body moves without thought. Bucky is just a passenger in this car, something else has the wheel. It knows what to do, how to do it. It knows one-thousand ways to kill a person with just his bare hands, it knows weak spots and how to duck and dive the weapons coming at him from every angle.

He moves.

A fist connects with plastic and glass. His fist? The mask shatters, the man stumbles and falls. Unconscious or dead, it makes no difference.

A knife almost makes contact with his shoulder and a bullet flies past his ear. He hears it shatter against the remaining tiles that had once covered the back wall of the kitchen.

His heart-rate increases. His breathing evens out into something both vaguely familiar and wild.

His muscles are poised. He tenses.

The knife makes another swipe, it slashes through the air as he ducks the weapon of another man. His leg juts out and catches one in the shin. His body continues to move of its own accord.

Upper cut. Turn. Duck.

His knee goes up into a stomach. The target doubles over, allowing his elbow to make forceful contact with the back of the target's neck.

He immediately ducks low, avoiding the taser that nearly catches him in the arm, and his hand makes a grab for the man's face. He manages to tear the helmet off, but the slimy screamer manages to wiggle his way out as two more men descend upon him.

Then, it all goes to shit. Because Steve regains consciousness.

And really, it's all Steve's fault, because the voice he uses to cry out distracts Barnes long enough that he feels the electric current of something suddenly pulse through him. Instinctively, his jaw snaps shut and his shrieks only echo inside his brain.

He knocks the wire out, half his muscles still unwilling to move from the current that just raced through his body.

A bullet pierces his knee.

He collapses onto one leg, giving them enough time to shoot another taser his way.

He can't hold back the scream this time. It erupts out of his throat with an agonising explosion in his chest.

Then, another one.

He sees himself collapse onto what remains of their living room floor. It's a strange kind of out-of-body experience. He doesn't feel it, his nerves have been electrically fried from end to end.

No. This cannot be how it ends. He's got to get up, he has to protect Steve. This monster has taken him before, it took him to a dark place and he cannot allow them to take Steve there too.

"Tsk, tsk," he hears over the shock in his brain. "Gentlemen, I told you to take him out without damaging him."

This voice.

He knows it.

Shoes. Brown and made of leather, appear in the corner of his swimming vision.

"You have damaged my property."

No. He doesn't belong to anyone. He is free. He is James Buchanan Barnes. Friend to Steve Rogers. He doesn't belong to anyone.

"Oh well, guess we'll just stitch him up again," says the voice. "You. Grab the other one."

Another taser pierces his skin.

All he can do is whimper.

"Are you ready, solider? Are you ready to come home?"

He feels like the question is directed at him. Also, it's not a question he's allowed to answer, even if he could physically open his jaw.

A hand touches his face and if he could physically move any part of himself right now, he would recoil. Long fingers draw over the length of his stubble and he bites back the terrified whimper that's trying to claw it's way out his chest. The cool fingers draw back the lock of hair which has fallen into his vision and he is met with a smile that makes bile rise into his mouth, makes his stomach want to spill up its contents.

The man pauses, but when his voice rings through the room again, Bucky's brain is no longer his own. The voice instills a paralyzing fear in him, which he is helpless to control.

"желание."

NO.

NO.

STEVE.

"ржаветь."

 _ _STOP! STOP! STOP!__

"семнадцать. _"_

NO.

"рассвет."

"печь."

no.

"девять."

no.

"доброкачественный."

"возвращение на родину."

steve.

"один."

"перевозка грузов."

 _ _S...t...e.v.e…__


End file.
